Ships in the Night
by sseraphiim
Summary: AU: Emma Swan has 4 months left until she's out of the system. Killian Jones is a police officer finishing his training. When Emma's current foster home is under police investigation for domestic violence, Killian suspects Emma is lying to protect someone. But Killian has his own dark past to contend with, and when Emma gets herself into trouble, her freedom doesn't seem so sweet.
1. Home is Where the Heart is

_One million thanks to Jackie for all her knowledge on legal jargon._

 _Hi all! This is my first serious attempt at any sort of fanfiction so reviews and comments are GREATLY appreciated! I'd love feedback about how I'm doing with the characterization and everything._

 _Just a brief note, Emma is 17 and Killian is 19, both living in Boston. Killian is finishing up his training and is hoping to venture into becoming a Detective. I'll get to the M rating eventually._

 _Happy reading!_

* * *

David's knock on the door is authoritative and swift, once, twice, three times. Killian stands next to Detective Nolan, the man he's been shadowing for the past few weeks. He somehow managed to get permission to follow a detective around as part of his police training. He is discrete about wiping the sweat off his hands on the back of his black uniform pants. It is his first time on the scene responding to an emergency call with David instead of just listening to what happened.

This one is a domestic violence case in a rather upscale part of the city, the brownstone flanked by mums and sunflowers in rich purples, golds, and reds. The navy blue door has an elaborate silver address number with a charming wooden plaque hanging below it that reads "Boothe." The two men stand on the steps of the brownstone and wait with guarded stances – feet apart, eyes forward, David's hand resting on his weapon and Killian a fraction of an inch behind him – for the door to open.

"I'd never guess a place like this would be where a domestic violence call would come from," Killian murmurs aloud.

"Get used to it. Unfortunately social rank doesn't stop people from committing acts of injustice against each other." David's voice is somber and Killian nods in understanding.

The door opens, illuminating the men in a thin rectangle of yellow light from the entryway.

"Can I help you?" the man asks, a slight Italian accent lilting his speech. His face is etched with time, deep wrinkles on a face that would look kind if Killian wasn't already biased from the call. He had answered the phone to a whispered sob that hit his heart in the same place he'd been aching from for the past three years.

"Good evening," David starts. "We're sorry to bother you this late but we are here in response to a string of robberies that have been reported in the neighborhood. Mind if we come in?"

"Yes, yes of course come in." The man opens the door wider in accommodation and David steps in first, Killian close on his heels.

"I'm Detective Nolan and this is Officer Jones."

"I'm Marco Boothe, please come in." David and Killian exchange a sidelong glance and the two take a step further into the entryway. The hall is narrow, made smaller by the dark navy on the walls. An old cherrywood staircase is to the right of them.

"Mr. Boothe, have you heard anything about the robberies that have been going on?" David asks.

"No, not that I can recall. I am a craftsman, I spend most of my time at my workshop down the road."

"Have you seen anything out of the ordinary around the neighborhood? Especially at night?"

Marco takes a minute to reply, his gaze flicking between both men. He lands on Killian and a smile lights up his face. "I have a boy that looks your age," he says.

Killian nods in response, but keeps his mouth shut. When he realizes he can't talk his way out of the question, Marco fumbles to answer. "I haven't seen anything strange, no. Just the usual around here."

"And what's the usual around here?" David smiles, a devastatingly charming smile that could make even the coldest criminal feel inclined to answer his questions.

"This is a family neighborhood, Detective. You've been around the block a few times, I'm sure you know what usual is for a place like this."

"Can we ask you what you did tonight, Mr. Boothe?" Killian asks.

Marco flicks his gaze to Killian again. "I was working on a project with my son."

"Did that upset you?" David asks.

"I beg your pardon?"

"While you were working on your project," David says, gesturing to the sawdust that covers Marco's jeans. "Did something happen that upset you?"

"I don't understand your question, Detective."

David drops the charming act. "We're actually here because we received a complaint of a domestic disturbance, and it's not the first time. Tell me about that." He turns his head to look at Killian and gives him a firm nod, an indication that he's to canvas the area. Killian steps away from the now tense conversation and heads down the hall.

The entryway opens up to a kitchen and dining room, with a second staircase at the far right of the space. Killian gives the room a quick scan, notes the boiling water on the stove and the chopped onions on the counter. There's a round table the color of dark chocolate at the far end of the kitchen, with five matching chairs. One of the chairs has fallen sideways.

He glances over to the staircase when he hears footsteps. A brown haired woman with a laundry basket in her hands stops when she gets to the end of the platform and meets Killian's gaze.

"Oh, hello," she says, a bit flustered. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Officer Jones, I'm here with Detective Nolan." Killian takes a few slow steps forward, his gaze sweeping over the woman for any signs of visible injuries. "Care to tell me what you were doing tonight, ma'am? Mrs. Boothe I presume?"

"Yes, call me Sarah." Killian watches as her gaze shifts away from his, to the boiling water behind him, to the laundry basket, and to the hallway entrance. "Just some housework. I'm finishing up the laundry and starting to make soup for tomorrow. My son is sick and he wanted soup." Her accent is there like her husbands, but is much less noticeable.

"Is it just you, your husband, and your son?" He does one more once over and from what he can see, she seems okay. Her hair is brown, streaked with silvered tell-tale signs of her age. She is slight and wears jeans and a pink tee shirt, a grey sweater covering her arms. Her face doesn't give away any signs of her age save for the lines around her amber eyes. She gives a slight shake of her head.

"No, we have a girl we have temporarily taken in from the foster system."

Killian nods. "Mind if I continue my look around upstairs?"

"Oh, no, please they have work tomorrow and are very tired. They're already in bed." She walks past Killian, to the closet that opens up to reveal the washer and dryer.

"It's protocol, Mrs. Boothe. You're welcome to accompany me upstairs." He heads towards the landing and Sarah stays where she is in the kitchen.

The stairs lead to an upstairs hallway where the other staircase is noticeable at the end of the hall. Paintings of Italian countrysides and cityscapes line one wall, and black and white family portraits line the other. Killian makes note of only three people in all of the photos. Marco, Sarah, and a boy who he is assuming to be their son.

Killian can hear David's voice ghost upstairs from the front of the house. The hallway has four doors, two on either side. The first door is the bathroom. Killian peeks his head in, looks around for any signs of struggle. He knocks on the next door, cracked open revealing only the blue illumination of a television. When no one responds, Killian takes it into his own hands to push the door open. The television is turned on, but muted. The room is empty, the bed covers drawn back as if someone had just gotten up. There are sports trophies on the dresser, a gaming system, and an old looking antique clock in the far corner of the room. The desk is clear of anything except for an old typewriter and a stack of papers. Killian briefly thumbs through them, notices they all seem to be works of prose or poetry and steps out of the room.

Killian's next stop is a closed door on the other side of the hallway. He gives a firm knock and waits for the knob to turn.

"Who are you?" the boy asks. His mousey hair is pushed off his face, his cerulean gaze guarded as he pulls the door open a bit more once he takes note of Killian's uniform. He hasn't shaved in a few days, and his black tee shirt shows his arms to be mark free. There is, however, a relatively new looking slash along the right side of his jaw.

"My name is Killian Jones, I'm a police officer with the Boston Police Station. We're responding to a call and I've been instructed to check on the members of the household. That's a pretty nasty looking injury you've got there, mate."

"I ride a motorcycle, had a pretty bad fall the other day. The name's August. Marco and Sarah are my parents. I didn't realize you could be a cop if you aren't an American citizen."

Eyebrow raised, Killian says, "I'm as much a citizen as you are. I've been here for a while." August nods and steps aside, beckoning for Killian to step further into the room. He nods back, and the first thing he notices is that this room is much less lived in than the one he was just in. There are two pieces of furniture in the room, a day bed against the windows and a dresser. The dresser drawers are thrown open, clothes hang out of the drawers and litter the floor. There's a half packed duffle bag on the edge of the bed.

He noticed the girl's presence as soon as he stepped into the room, but knew he had to take inventory of what was around him first. He finally focuses on her, her flaxen hair pulled back in a ponytail, strong jawline and sharp, elegant features. Her emerald eyes catch in the light and shine with a look he recognizes immediately. One of her eyes has begun to swell, there are scrapes on her arms caked with dried blood, and the black framed glasses in her grip have shattered lenses.

Killian feels his mood change immediately. Anger begins to simmer though his veins, a low hum beneath his skin that has his ears reddening and his pupils dilating. His fingers itch to reach out and examine her injuries, but he sticks to the script.

"Care to tell me what's happened here?"

"She's my sister," August's says. There's a knife-edge to his voice that sets Killian on even higher alert.

"Lass?" He prompts.

She looks up at him after a silent minute, her eyes focusing on his face instead of on her destroyed glasses. But she still remains quiet. The only sounds in the room are the voices that rise from downstairs, a heated argument in Italian echoing through the air vents. August closes his eyes, runs a frustrated hand through his hair and drops his head back toward the ceiling.

"Emma –"

"Shut it, August," she snaps.

"Emma, is it?" Killian asks, taking a step forward. This close he's able to see that the swelling is a bit worse than it was from afar, and it sends a fresh batch of anger brewing in his fingertips. His hands ball into fists, clenching and unclenching for a minute until he regains his composure. "I'll ask again, love. Care to tell me what happened?" Again, her gaze meets his and his breath catches in his throat. He's not quite sure what to do, she's injured and obviously out of sorts, and all he can remember while under the scrutiny of her deep sea green gaze is that he's supposed to get the cold hard facts from the witnesses, that they're here on a domestic abuse call, that someone's been hurt and that someone is sitting directly in front of him.

He wants to hurt whoever did this to her.

"How old are you, Emma?" he ventures.

"Seventeen." Her prompt answer surprises him, and he keeps pressing.

"How long have you been here?"

"Three months."

"Is this the first time this has happened?"

"The first time _what's_ happened?" The two stare at each other, eyes locked, bodies tense with their own thoughts.

"The bruising on your skin, does it happen often?" Her answer is a whisper so quiet that he's not sure if he imagined it.

"Yes."

He knows he can't get any more out of her without David. David needs to hear what happened and David needs to be the one to make the arrest. But when she continues talking, he doesn't try to stop her.

"It was Marco."

"Emma –"

"August," she sneers, standing up with such urgency it knocks Killian back a step. The look they share screams of shared secrets, and the pang of jealousy that shoots through Killian surprises and confuses him. Emma turns to him, and she has to tilt her chin up a bit to meet his gaze. "Marco Boothe did this to me. He shoved me to the ground and attacked me."

Killian beckons for her to follow him out of the bedroom, but it doesn't go unnoticed when August reaches into Emma's top drawer and pockets a folded piece of paper.


	2. Blame it on Me

Emma's eye is on fire and the scrapes on her arm sting with a promise of infection if she doesn't get them cleaned up soon. Her resolve shook today in a way it never should have, in a way it hadn't since she was thirteen in that home in Chicago and she wanted nothing more than to escape to some fairytale world where a prince would rescue her from a tower and they would live happily ever after. That became a dead dream a long time ago.

She can barely see a damn thing without her glasses as she follows the young cop out of her temporary bedroom.

Temporary, everything is temporary.

"Detective Nolan," Killian addresses his mentor with the utmost respect, even bowing his head a bit as the man turns to look at them. Emma keeps her head fixed in the direction of Detective Nolan, avoiding her foster parents in the corner of the foyer. She can feel Marco's anger as it seeps through his pores and slitters its way up her spine. "Her name's Emma," Killian offers up from his spot behind David. Emma shoots him an irritated look, tired of people speaking for her.

The detective takes one look at Emma and heads toward Marco. After that, everything is a cacophony of sound that frays Emma's nerves completely. She has to press her hands to her stomach to keep them from visibly shaking.

"Marco Boothe, you are under arrest."

"What? For what? I am a good man, I am an honest man."

"Father," August's voice sounds from behind Emma, the only bit of comfort she can grasp onto in this situation.

"Son," he seethes back.

"For the battery of a minor. Do you know your rights?"

A sobbed "Marco."

An angry protest, starting in English and ending in Italian.

An English accent telling her she needed to come down to the precinct to give her official statement.

August's familiar timbre telling her this wasn't right, this isn't how it should happen.

Her own thoughts, screaming in reminder that she only had four months left in the system and then she'd finally be free.

/~*~/

Emma holds an ice pack to her steadily swelling eye as her hands tingle the way they always do when she gets worked up. She feels almost electric, like she could hold her hands out and take down anything that gets in her path.

If only that were true.

The room she's in is ridiculous. The walls are shades of purple and lavender, and there are star shaped sconces that create soft circles of illumination that light the space. There are shelves of stuffed animals, a corner with beanbag chairs and books, and an art easel on the other side of the room. Emma is sitting on an uncomfortable blue plastic chair that is too small for her long legs. Her hair has since been taken out of its ponytail. It falls over her shoulder as her elbow rests on the equally tiny plastic table while she holds the ice pack against her injury. Someone had already cleaned and collected whatever they needed from the scrapes on her arms. She was littered with bruises and bandaids, a mosaic of physical ailments that she couldn't keep the world from noticing.

The door opens and two blurry figures step in. She squints her good eye and makes out the faces of Detective Nolan and Officer Killian Jones. They sit in two chairs across from her and look even more ridiculously out of place than she does. She glances between the two of them, trying not to notice how intense the one named Killian's gaze is.

"Hi, Emma," the detective says first. "My name is David. We came to ask you a couple of questions, is that all right?"

"I'm not a child, you don't have to treat me like one," she retorts, sitting up straighter in her chair and letting the hand holding the ice pack fall into her lap. "Starting with this room. What is this place?"

"Ah, well we use it to talk to children, it's a bit less intimidating than some of the other rooms here."

"A bit?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "And I'm not a child."

"We know, but you've been through a lot tonight and it's a lot more comfortable in here anyway."

"Sure, comfortable." The two men glance at each other and Killian leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on top of his knees.

"Emma," he starts, his voice like liquid honey as it lilts through the space between them, "Can you start by telling us how long you've been with the Boothe family?"

"I'm pretty sure I told you this already when we were back at the house."

"Yes, well, I seem to have forgotten," he says with a half smile that makes her stomach swoop. She narrows her eyes at him.

"Not great practice for a cop, don't you think?"

He sits back in his seat, dropping the coy act as understanding flashes in his eyes that this won't be as easy as he may have hoped.

David glances at Killian before turning back to her. "Can you answer the question for me, Emma? How long have you been with the Boothe family?"

"Three months."

"Has this happened before?"

She glances down at her hands, places the icepack on the table, drops her hands back into her lap.

"Yes."

"How often?"

"Only when he drinks."

"How often does he drink?"

Emma stares at the detective in front of her, her gaze unwavering. Detective Nolan seemed like an honest man, like he was really on her side. She liked to believe she was a good judge of character, and she was always good at being able to tell when someone was lying to her. She had been around her more than fair share of dishonest, untrustworthy people always fishing for information to get them ahead, cops included. But David seemed…different. He sat across from her and almost mimicked royalty, the sure way he held his head and the reassuring air he carried with him from the minute he entered the room. She should just tell the truth right now, tell him everything about what happened and what had been happening but she couldn't.

Emma didn't realize she had been holding her breath. She lets out a heavy sigh and replies.

"Every night."

Again, the men glance at each other and for some reason it irritates her.

"What?" she snaps.

"Every night since you got there?"

She frowns and pushes out of the chair, the icepack falling to the floor. She walks over to a wall that has tons of hand drawn pictures, all childish in nature. Without her glasses, it's all just a blur of color. Her fingertips reach up to gauge how much her eye has swelled. She can't see without her glasses normally, let alone with an eye that's swollen shut.

"August tells me it's gotten worse." She turns around to face them again. "He tells me that this happened once before when his family took in another kid a couple of years ago. I guess I'm the common factor if that's the case."

"What else has August told you?"

"You'll have to ask him." She can tell David doesn't like that answer by the way his jaw clenches.

"What exactly happened tonight, Emma?" he asks her. She remembers what she spoke about with August just before Killian came into the room. She doesn't want to be here. She doesn't like the way they are looking at her, like she is some sort of wounded animal. Something in her starts to snap, she can feel her temper starting to flare.

"Look, I'm not some helpless, distressed child. I tolerated being put in this room, I tolerated your attempt at jokes," she gestures toward Killian, "but I'm sure as hell not going to be able to keep talking to you if you don't drop the concerned parent act. Ask me what you want to ask me."

David doesn't hesitate. "How did you get that black eye? How did you get those scrapes on your arms? What _happened_ , Emma?"

Emma doesn't hesitate, either. She's known what she was going to say since she made her decision earlier in the night. "Marco had been drinking. Something must have made him angry, because when I walked into the kitchen, he lunged at me. I tried to duck out of his way but that just lined his fist up with my face. He knocked me to the ground, but I'm pretty good with self defense, and all he managed to do after that was scratch at me before I managed to escape."

"He just came at you unprovoked?" David asks.

Emma presses her lips together, steeling herself for what she's about to say. "He does't like me very much. I probably should get out of there so their lives can go back to normal."

"He doesn't like you very much? That's pretty extreme behavior, Emma."

"Get out of there," Killian repeats slowly.

David leans back in his seat, hands folded across his stomach. "Killian told me that you looked like you were planning on getting out of there on your own. Is that true?"

Emma recalls the way she had tried to run away. She hadn't tried to run from the Boothes yet, mostly because of August. She enjoyed his friendship and his company, she enjoyed the way he made her feel like she wasn't completely alone. He hadn't tried to badger her or boss her around the way other kids in her past foster families had done. He'd bring her dinner and ask her opinion on what he was writing, offer to help her with her homework, or be the voice of reason when her temper was getting the best of her. They became fast friends. He never pushed her and they had an unspoken understanding. August and Emma kept each other safe.

"Yes, I tried to run."

"Why?" Killian pushes.

"Wouldn't you?" she retorts.

"Why didn't you run sooner? You said this happened quite often."

"I had reasons to stay."

"But you've run away before, Emma," David cuts in, glancing at her case file that had been sitting on the small plastic table. He leans forward, grabs the manilla folder, and thumbs through its contents. "Maine, Oregon, Connecticut, New York," he glances up at her. "Shall I keep going?"

"What are you accusing me of?" she snaps. "I'm the victim in this situation."

"Yes, you are," David soothes. "But we're just trying to get the facts, Emma. You're not giving us much to work with."

"I told you what happened," she says between clenched teeth. "Marco does not like me. I am not welcomed there. Move me to a different home."

"You do realize what that means, Emma. You only have," David glances at her file again, "four months left until you're eighteen. We can contact your case worker and figure something out, especially if you don't feel safe there and –"

"Yes, contact my case worker," she interrupts. "Move me, it's my fault. The Boothes will be better off once I'm out of there." For a moment it's quiet. Neither of the two men say anything to her, and she lets her words sink it.

"Thanks for your time, Emma," David says as the two of them stand up, gesturing at her to follow them. She gives a curt nod and follows them back towards the door. On her way over she steps on something that causes her to loose her footing, and it isn't until she feels the world tilt beneath her that she remembers the discarded ice pack. A strangled sound leaves her lips as she braces herself for impact, but her breath catches when she feels a strong grip on her upper arms.

Killian stands in front of her, his hold on her lessening as she gets two feet back on the ground. Her heart is beating an erratic rhythm in her chest as her eyes find his. This close, the details of his face aren't as blurry. It's distance she has a problem with, but up close she can see the navy flecks in his lapis eyes. She can see the shadow of day two stubble that covers his jaw and has to fight the urge in her fingertips to reach up and push a loose strand of dark hair off his forehead. She has to stop herself from letting her gaze travel to his mouth and clears her throat.

She takes a step away from him, grateful she didn't hit the floor, peeved by the flush she feels on her cheeks. She'd just been through hell and she didn't need her body reacting this way.

"Thanks," she ventures. He gestures for her to walk in front of him with a nod and a sweeping motion with his arm.

"In case your impaired vision gets in your way again," he quips.

On her way out of the precinct and back to the waiting room she keeps her focus on David's back. But that doesn't stop her from feeling his presence behind her the entire time.


	3. Fool Me Once

_Again, I owe my knowledge of the legal process to Jackie bless her heart my bff._

 _Also, we have a appearance by the late Graham Humbert may he rest in peace._

 _Thanks for everyone who has kept up so far!_

* * *

David Nolan, the Prince Charming of law enforcement had approached Emma with soft and fatherly features as he tried to get answers out of her.

David Nolan, the fierce, devoted detective, approaches Marco with tense shoulders and blue fire in his eyes.

"We have your file here, Mr. Boothe," he starts. The folder sits on top of the chrome table, Killian and David on the opposite side from Marco. The room is naturally intimidating with its fluorescent lights and echoing blue-grey walls. But David's anger is palpable, and Marco has his hands folded in front of him, his eyes cast down at the pieces of paper that hold his previous grievances. "Some honest man you are. On February fifteenth the cops were called to your place for a noise complaint, on April twenty-first, you were questioned for a drunk and disorderly, and on May eighteenth you were busted for fare evasion not a full block from here. Oh, on top of all that it says here that you also previously had taken in a young boy from the foster system. But he was taken away from you after only a month?

"It's the end of July, Emma's been with you since April. Two of these things have happened since she's in your care. Do you think this is a stable environment to take in a child from the system?"

"Emma is hardly a child, she's almost eighteen," Marco refutes.

"Spoken like a true hero," David seethes. "All these notations and no arrests or trials? What's going on here?"

Marco's voice is loud and clear. "I am an honest man. I am a man of my community, everybody knows me."

"Aye," Killian remarks. "Everyone knows the town drunk who beats his wife and kids. I know that was the case in my neighborhood growing up." Marco visibly bristles and lets his fist hit the table with force.

"I helped restore the old church down the road, I helped to build the soup kitchen that has been running in the neighborhood for twenty years, as long as my son has been alive! I love that boy, I would never hurt him."

"How about your wife and Emma? What do they mean to you?" David pushes out of his chair and starts to pace the length of the room. Killian has been working with him long enough to know what family means to him. These types of cases always get him particularly angry.

"I love my wife," he defends in a rush. "We met in Italy when we were young. I came here to start a contracting business, she followed me. She has been nothing but loyal. We struggled to have a child for a bit, and when August came along our life was complete. It was a miracle."

Killian smirks at Marco, an unsettling twist of his features. He didn't trust this man as far as he could throw him. "I'm glad to hear you love your son so much. But lest not forget you have a young lady in your household now. The foster system doesn't force children upon citizens, and someone as wealthy as you? I saw that brownstone you inhabit, you don't need the money. Why take in a an extra mouth to feed?"

"Like you said, we don't need the money. Emma is a wonderful girl, we want to give her a better life until she is old enough to leave."

"Yeah, I bet you can't wait until she leaves," David presses. He's suddenly at the side of the table, towering over Marco and shooting daggers at him with his eyes. "I bet you can't wait until she's out of your hair for good."

"I never said that."

"I bet she's been nothing but trouble for you, an extra plate to clean at dinner, extra money on the bills, nothing but an inconvenience. She's nothing like your son, she's probably moody and speaking of your son, she's probably spending more time with him than you are. Maybe they're friends. Maybe more? Maybe you're sick of her monopolizing your pride and joy. Maybe she's put ideas in his head, maybe he wants to do something else instead of honor the family business, and maybe those ideas didn't start materializing until Emma showed up? Does that sound right?"

"I. Never. Said. That." Marco is speaking through clenched teeth now, a visible flush of color on his face.

"No, but you sure left your mark, buddy I can sure as hell tell you that much." David starts to throw pictures of Emma's injuries down on the table. Her eye, the scrapes on her arms, the bruises on her wrists that had started to form once they got down to the precinct.

Killian can't explain the rage that he feels when he sees what this man did to her once again. He chalks it up to the promise he made to himself after the events of his past had left him broken and led him to this path. He wants this man to pay.

"I do not have anything to say about this."

"Maybe you enjoy having a punching bag around?" David keeps pushing. Killian just watches Marco, watches the way his eyes shift from the images in front of him, up to the one way mirror on the wall behind him. His fists clench and unclench on top of the table, and a bead of sweat starts to roll down the right side of his face from his temple. "She doesn't have any real familial value, so who cares, right? Why'd you do it, Marco? Or maybe, just maybe," David's voice drops a decibel, just above a whisper. "Maybe it's not Emma you were after. Maybe she's protecting someone. Maybe she's taking the blame, but for what reason?"

Marco doesn't say anything and Killian can see David's attempt at a calm demeanor completely shatter. His hand spread on the table, his face an inch from Marco's. Marco recoils from the hostility, leans back in his chair in response, his muscles tense with fear."You are an abuser, a wife beater! How do you keep getting foster children placed in your care?" David's voice is so loud Killian has to force himself not to cringe.

"Mate," he comments. David turns his head, takes a step back from Marco.

Marco doesn't look at either of them when he says, "I want a lawyer."

Without a word, David and Killian leave the room.

"Humbert," David nods a greeting to their commanding officer who had been waiting outside the room. "He lawyered up."

Graham lets out an unamused chuckle. "Of course. What do you think?"

"I think Emma's hiding something or trying to protect someone. I'd believe he went after her directly, but we've got to talk to the wife first," Killian replies.

"And the son," David retorts.

"Definitely the son."

"The son's in there," Graham says, pointing to a room behind him. "And the wife's down the hall. David, you can go talk to the wife and Killian, I'll let you handle this one. I'll be out here listening if you need any assistance." Killian feels a jolt of surprise and barely has time to gather his thoughts before he's being ushered toward the door.

"Aye, thank you." He steels himself and strides into the room. August is standing, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted up toward the ceiling. "August," Killian addresses him and he drops his head to nod back.

"Officer."

Killian leans against the edge of his table and mimics August's stance. "Would you like to start in your own words or do you need me to ask you what happened?"

"Where do you want me to start?" August sassed. Killian raises an eyebrow.

"How about with your father?"

"He came over from Italy with my mother –"

Killian waves a hand, straightens his posture and starts to pace with slow, languid steps around the room. "Save the background about your family lineage, mate. I've got one of my own, nobody needs to hear about that. Let's get to the good stuff, shall we? What has your father been like recently? We know Miss Swan has only been with you for three months, what has he been like since she arrived?"

"Different," August sighs.

"Different how?" Killian presses. August's eyes take everything in while he watches Killian.

"My mother had a heart attack about four months ago."

Killian's eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline in surprise. "Right before Emma."

August nods. "Yes, she was given basically a terminal diagnosis, that her heart wasn't strong enough to sustain her life for any longer than a couple of months. My mom has always wanted a daughter, but they couldn't get a young girl in time and Emma was next in line for a new home. So they signed the papers."

"What went wrong?"

"I don't know." August shakes his head. "This has happened once before. A young boy came to live with us and it just set my parents off, sent them into chaos. The boy was taken away from them after only a month."

"You say _them_ , not _us_. Why?"

"I wasn't around for a while. I traveled. I've been out of high school for a couple of years and I wasn't ready to go to college. Emma's been helping me with that, actually. I came home for my mother, but stayed for her. Because I knew what my dad might be capable of. I love that man. He was my hero growing up. But something's been off the past five years and I can't fix it. I've tried to fix it. He's become a shell of who he was when I was young."

August talks about Emma like he's her protector, like she needed him around to keep her safe from Marco. But Killian saw Emma and saw August and had a feeling that Emma was more than capable of keeping herself protected. He tries not to analyze the look in August's eyes when he talks about Emma and continues with the investigation.

"What were you doing tonight?"

"My dad wanted me to help him work on a project in his workshop."

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Help him."

"Yes. For a short time. But like I said, he's not the same. Our relationship is different and I got frustrated. I went home." August wanders over to the table and pulls a chair out. His movements are almost wooden, seemingly stiff with pain.

"And the scratch on your jaw?"

"Like I said," he sighs. "Motorcycle accident. Bike is fine, I'm fine, you can check the garage. This was the only injury."

"You said you've been graduated for a couple of years?"

"Yes, I graduated high school two years ago. I don't have school, but Emma has another year left." With a nod, Killian walks over to the chair opposite August and takes a seat.

"Speaking of Emma, what happened?"

"Didn't she tell you?" August protested.

"Yes, but I'd like to hear it from you as well."

August looks down at the table, a younger, more likable reflection of his father in the other room. He drums his fingers against the table before picking his head up. "Emma, she…" he drifts off, runs a hand through his hair. Killian can see the fight in his eyes, and the way his shoulders have tensed. He looks to the right, a psychological sign that August is about to tell a lie. He sighs before he continues. "Emma had gone downstairs to the kitchen. Next thing I knew, I heard her yell and heard the commotion. I was already half asleep, so I rushed out of bed and tried to make it downstairs to her. She was already halfway up the stairs, and you saw the way she looked after that."

"Who attacked her?"

"My father." There's an implied _duh_ at the end of August's sentence.

"Why?" Killian pestered. "Why did your father go after Emma?"

August shakes his head and holds his hands out in front of him in surrender. It takes him a minute to find his voice. "He's been drinking a lot. He doesn't like her, I wish I knew why. I've tried to convince him, she's done so much good for us it doesn't make any sense."

Killian leans back in his chair, disappointed with August's story. He knows these two are lying, he knows they're protecting something.

Or someone.

The question is, who?

Killian has one more question for August. "Where was your mother when all this was happening?" For a minute, he thinks he's caught him in the lie. He thinks August doesn't have an answer for him, but of course he does.

"She was in her bedroom. She can't focus on one thing at a time very well, so she came upstairs to collect her laundry in the middle of cooking dinner," he chuckles, obviously endeared by his mother. Killian lets out a frustrated breath and runs a hand over his eyes. He stands, gesturing for August to follow. They are out of Humbert's view while at the door and Killian places a hand on August's shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

"Whatever you two are protecting, it isn't going to help anything by putting Emma's life in danger."

August glances down at Killian's hand, takes a step away from him and meets his hard glare with one equally as angry.

"I know."


	4. Last Ditch Effort

_My knowledge about cop divisions is limited so if you have any advice about what Killian's Business Card should say I'd appreciate it! Thanks for keeping up with this story. My ideas for where to go with them change every day and I can't wait to see where this ends up. Thank you thank you thank you!_

* * *

The calendar on the wall in the kitchen reads July 4, and Emma can't help but feel a bit disappointed. She continues to stare at the picture of a lighthouse that's supposed to signify the month of July, leaning her back against the counter as she finishes eating her cereal. Sunlight pours in through the window above the sink, illuminating the dust that shimmers and floats through the air. The house has been quiet the past three days, with Sarah holed up in her bedroom and Marco being held until today's bail hearing. August has been MIA for most of the day, but at night he always wanted to talk. _Are you sure you're doing the right thing? We can always change the story. I don't want you to get hurt._

She spoons another bite of cereal into her mouth and represses a sigh. She learned long ago that she should never expect anything, but for some reason, she thought that this would be the year that she would get to see a real Fourth of July celebration. The Boothes seemed so promising, but then again, so did a lot of people. The bowl and spoon clatter as she places them in the sink.

She is quick to get ready, slipping on a court-appropriate white sundress and tan ballet flats. Lucky for her, Sarah had bought her a spare pair of glasses when she had first shown up to their home in wire frames with scratched lenses. She wears them now, but a flitting thought enters her mind that maybe she should try and invest in some contacts.

Emma had agreed to go to the hearing, but she refused to go inside. August had promised he would relay the hearing back to her and she took his word for it. The guy had one hell of a memory.

Midday, she sits on the steps of the courthouse, her legs stretched out in front of her, her arms braced behind her, face turned toward the sun. Her golden hair is half up, the skin around her eye taking on the green hues of a healing bruise, the scrapes on her skin melting away to nothing one day at a time.

Her case worker had been contacted about the assault and had shown up the following day. Regina Mills had been with Emma for majority of her life, and the woman wasn't exactly warm and fuzzy. Emma sometimes got the feeling she was more of a nuisance than anything else because she was one of the few in Regina's caseload who had remained in the system for her entire life.

Regina had showed up to the Boothe's in the morning. Emma answered the door, fresh bruises and all.

"Dear God, Emma what happened?" she exclaimed, pushing past Emma into the hallway, making herself at home as she made her way toward the kitchen. Regina sat down and opened Emma's file while Emma gingerly lowered herself into the chair across from her. She wouldn't admit it, but her body was hurting.

"Marco had been drinking and I did something that set him off, it was completely my fault."

"It is absolutely not your fault, Emma. That man has no right to touch you _ever_ , do you understand me?"

Emma nodded, and she knew Regina was right, knew already that nobody had any right to touch her. But she knew what story she had told the police and knew she had to stick to it.

Regina went on to explain that while the court investigated the case, they would as well. She went through guidelines since Emma was old enough to understand.

"Your safety is most important to us, Emma. You know that, right?" Regina asked, all the while folding up Emma's file and putting it in her briefcase. Regina was always put together, expensive blazers and straight leg pants, red soled heels and glossy hair. That day in particular she was wearing a black button down with a silver studded collar, one too many buttons unbuttoned in Emma's opinion. She had paired it with a red pencil skirt and black, silver-tipped heels. "We're going to get this guy. He probably won't make bail, not with your injuries looking like they do. Then I'll come back to conduct investigations on whether or not Sarah is an appropriate caregiver for you until you're eighteen."

"Sarah's fine," Emma assured.

Regina nodded. "Good, I'm counting on that loser not getting bail, but like I said, we're working with the police force so I'll be around."

"Thanks, Regina," Emma replied, not really putting much gusto into her words. She had said "Thanks, Regina" more times than she could count.

With a jolt, Emma comes back to the present. She glances down at her phone and sees the text from August.

 _Be out in two minutes._

She stands up, brushes her dress off, and walks back into the lobby of the courthouse. The larger than life, shiny wooden doors loom over Emma while she waits across from them, hands pressed into the wall behind her.

Right on cue, the doors open to reveal August, his brow creased with worry. He rushes over to Emma while everyone files out after him.

"What happened?"

"He's going to make bail," August explains. Emma feels the floor drop out from under her and her eyes slip closed. She hears everyone join their little group, and August keeps talking. "The ADA tried, Emma. He was up there talking about how Marco is a repeat offender and has a record of abuse, that he should have his foster parenting license taken away. He even ventured to say that Marco's a flight risk because of the family we have in Italy and he wanted to keep him in jail without bail."

"I'm guessing that didn't work out too well," Emma gripes, finally opening her eyes. Her nerves are already on high alert, but noticing the way Killian was staring at her makes her stomach swoop in a way she was beginning to blame him for.

"They set bail, but kept his passport."

"That's great." Emma can't stop the disdain from coloring her voice.

"Emma, we'll be fine," Sarah interjects. Emma's eyes dart to her foster mother. She can practically feel the fury rolling off of her in waves and Sarah recoils a bit.

"Define 'fine,' Sarah," she growls. August fidgets beside her, arm brushing against hers. David takes a step forward and places a hand on her shoulder, his touch full of nothing but comfort.

"Emma, why don't we all go back to the precinct so we can discuss what's been going on with your caseworker?"

"I have to go back there anyway to pick up Marco." Sarah's voice is barely audible and it is a miracle that Emma doesn't open her mouth and scream in response. Instead, she finds herself breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

"Excuse me," she whispers before she heads back toward the door. She needs air. The minute she steps back outside she can breathe again.

It's louder out here than it was in the courtroom, the bustling city streets with distant horns and sirens, giggles from the sidewalk and yells from the park down the block. This is Emma's first time in Boston since she was a little kid, but the magic of the city isn't lost on her. Even through the noise, she can hear the footsteps approaching behind her.

"Look, August. I know what you're thinking."

"Do you now?" The voice that responds to her is not August's and her breathing starts to pick up again.

"Officer Jones," she acknowledges, turning to face him.

"Please, call me Killian," he grins. After a minute he drops the smile and becomes serious. "I'm sorry that happened in there."

She lets out an unamused chuckle. "Yeah, me too."

"I'd offer you a place to sleep in the cribs, but unfortunately that's bad form," he smirks.

"The cribs?"

"Aye, they're where we sleep if we stay at work a bit past when we're supposed to."

"I don't need to be bunking with cops," _again_ , she adds internally. She represses a grimace as she remembers the one time when she was living in Portland and she was caught for trying to steal from a convenience store. Her foster family at the time had taken a full twenty-four hours to even come pick her up or contact Regina.

"Well, the offer doesn't really stand anyway," he shrugs. "But Emma, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call this number." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card, _Killian Jones, BPD Officer, 12th Precinct, Division Two._ His phone number was printed on the bottom of the card, but below it was a hand written number. "Either number, actually," he clarifies. "This one is my personal phone. I know sometimes it's –"

"Thanks." She cuts him off, taking the card and pocketing it. She's not one to accept help from unsettlingly handsome cops, even if she wants to. She's on her own, she's always been on her own.

It's quiet between the two of them after that, and she watches the way the warm breeze ruffles his hair. She feels his eyes on her bruises and scrapes and frowns.

"What's with the once over? Are you a doctor and a cop?"

He shakes his head as if coming out of a daze and says, "My apologies," but offers no other explanation. Soon after they're joined by the rest of the group.

"Everything okay?" August asks.

"As okay as it's going to be, August," she sighs. Detective Nolan motions for them to follow him to his squad car. Sarah opts to follow them in her car instead. She reaches for Emma and gives her forearm a gentle squeeze before walking away. Sarah had made Emma feel guilty from the very beginning. When she showed up to the Boothe's home, Sarah had just been released from the hospital. She had been admitted into emergency care for a full month, and even though neither Regina nor the Boothes ever really told her as much, she expected she was sort of a last ditch effort for Sarah to raise a daughter.

Emma was used to pretending. For the longest time, she had tried to be the daughter that each foster family would want. She was attentive, active, respectful, and never asked for seconds at dinner. For a while, she felt it was a privilege to even be in these families' homes. She never took advantage, until she grew old enough to realize that most of these families weren't doing this for her. They were doing it for themselves, an attempt at charity or an extra source of income. After that, Emma decided who was worth her time.

The Boothes weren't, but August was. She couldn't explain the connection they had. She'd never cross the platonic line, although sometimes she got the feeling August would be willing to. If it came to it, she'd wait until she left at eighteen, then maybe she'd contact him again.

Killian and David discuss legal business in the front seat, and Emma turns to her foster brother.

"Did she say anything?" She makes sure to keep her voice low, quieter than a whisper, but not so quiet that she has to speak directly into August's ear to be heard. He gives the slightest shake of his head. "I'm not sure she's going to be able to play along." Emma lets out a breath and her head falls back against the seat.

"It wouldn't be the worst thing," August pushes.

"I already explained this to you," she reprimands. "I won't be the reason you lose everything."

August leans closer. "I wouldn't lose anything, Emma. _And_ you'd get to stick around."

"We'll see." His disapproving frown says it all. She rolls her eyes and gives him a light smack on the arm.

"Hey, no fighting in my squad car or I'm going to have to arrest you for real," David jokes as he glances in the rearview mirror. A smile lights up his eyes and Emma can't help but feel safe whenever she's with him.

"You've got it, detective. It won't happen again."

The smile fades from her face as soon as it appeared. Her nerves have been on high alert ever since four nights ago, and even though she was so sure in her conviction about what she was doing, she _wasn't_ so sure she'd be able to pull it off.


	5. Off the Clock

_Again, thank you all so much for following along! I'm so shocked by the number of follows this has, I didn't expect it! I hope you enjoy keeping up with these two as much as I have so far._

* * *

"I swear, whoever makes the coffee in this place never makes it strong enough," David remarks as he and Killian walk back to David's office to meet with Emma. "If you end up in this division mark my words." He grimaces as he takes a sip from the paper cup in his hand. "Think we could get more out of her about what happened?"

"You're the detective here," Killian notes. "She seems like nothing is going to sway her from that story."

David opens his door, since Killian's hands are full with two cups of coffee. In the office, she's standing near the window with her hands behind her back. The scratches still mar her fair skin, but they're healing. And Killian noticed how the bruise on her eye looked much less swollen.

At the sound of their approach, Emma turns, the white dress she's wearing swaying with her movements. He hands one cup to Emma and she accepts without a word.

"We spoke to Regina," David starts, leaning against his desk. "She explained what the protocol is for things like this, I'm assuming she told you as well."

Emma nods. "She did."

"Good, do you have any questions for us? Now that Marco made bail, we'll post one of us outside of the brownstone for surveillance."

"I wouldn't want you to do that," she hurriedly disagrees. "And besides, I don't think it's smart. Marco is constantly outside, he'd notice if a car," David makes a move to interrupt her and she holds up a finger. "Even an unmarked one. Even if an unmarked car was on his street I'm telling you, he'd notice."

"Well keeping with protocol, we'll be there every now and then. Until then, do you have anywhere to stay?"

"I'll ask August."

"Okay because Regina made it clear that the first priority is to keep you safe, and right now, safe is not that brownstone."

"I'm going to be honest with you and say I'm currently not the top priority on Regina's list."

"Glad you're honest about something," Killian murmurs into his cup. He glances up at Emma from below his lashes to gauge her reaction. She's visibly stiffened, her back ramrod straight and her gemstone eyes narrowed into slits. She frowns at him and her head tilts to the side as if she's observing a strange animal in its habitat. His wants to wink at her, wants to see what it would do, but he quickly remembers he's at work and not at a bar when he hears David's voice.

"What do you mean you're not top of her list?" David inquires, looking away from Killian but not before shooting him a _we'll talk about that later_ glare.

"Have you seen her caseload?" Emma retorts, venturing to take a sip of her coffee and failing to hide the grimace on her face. "She has a young boy who just lost both of his parents to a freak accident, a teenage girl who keeps crying wolf about an abusive grandmother, a boy whose father abandoned him at a hotel after winning at a game of blackjack. Believe me, I'm at the bottom of the list right now."

"We'll make sure we keep a close watch, okay?" David reassures. Emma nods her thanks and places the barely touched cup on the table.

"I do have one question," she says.

"Ask away." David's grin spreads across his face in earnest.

"Is there any way to keep Sarah from knowing about any of this talk with Regina?"

David and Killian exchange a look. "Not really, Emma. She's going to find out –"

"But she can't find out, that's the thing."

"Listen, Emma." David puts his coffee down and meets her across the room, standing directly in front of her. "This whole operation works through the truth. Victims or witnesses tell the truth, the perpetrator is found guilty. But it all requires the truth, not some version of the truth that was concocted in a bedroom after an assault at midnight. There are consequences and punishments for their actions and it is our job to make sure these people get what's coming to them."

"I know all about consequences and punishments." Her voice is getting higher in pitch, distress coloring her cheeks. "But Sarah finding out would ruin everything."

"Finding out what?" Killian asks.

Emma presses her lips together, her eyes darting between Killian and David.

"You spoke to Sarah," she affirmed, pointing at David. "What did she say?"

"She told us her version of the story," David replies.

"Which was what?"

"Nice try," David finishes. "This trial will not put Marco away if you do not tell us the truth. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she assures. "But I did tell you the truth. And besides, I didn't think I was back at this building for an interrogation. Long story short, you're going to be keeping an eye out until Regina gets a hold on my situation. See you boys for four months straight if that's the case. I'm out of here."

Killian coughs on his coffee as he tries but fails to hold back a laugh. Emma brushes past him on her way out and he watches her as she meets up with August and the two of them leave without Marco or Sarah. He turns to David with a laugh still bubbling on his lips. "You boys?"

"I hope she has a place to stay," David remarks. Killian represses a sigh as the humor of the situation fades away and is lost on the detective.

"Offered her the cribs this morning," Killian recalls out loud. David turns to him abruptly.

"You can't do that."

"Already done, mate," he says, taking the last gulp of his coffee before throwing the paper cup in the trash. He turns to leave David's office and heads to his desk. The clock on the wall reads eleven-thirty. He has a ton of paperwork left to do before getting out of here for the day. Lucky for him, he's still technically in training. He can leave the office early for holidays, and that is exactly what he plans to do.

/~*~/

Killian had met Robin Locksley the first week he had been in Boston. They had met at a pub on a weeknight and Killian had enjoyed the distraction of beer and fantastic stories about all the things Robin had accomplished in his life so far. Robin told tales of working charities, helping the poor by convincing the rich to donate or volunteer. He was a cunning businessman, but he didn't have a hurtful bone in his body. Robin now ran one of the most prominent charities in the city and opened his home to everyone. It explained why his Fourth of July parties were always so crowded.

Robin lives in a townhouse on the harbor. His back porch extends to an area of public dock that, every year, fills to capacity with party guests. He had managed to coerce the city to leave him be with a joke of, "As long as nobody throws anything into the harbor."

Killian had ditched his work clothes. Instead, he wears a short sleeve button-down, navy blue with little white anchors. He pairs it with khaki shorts and on his walk along the harbor, picks up a pair of plastic red rimmed sunglasses. For the rest of the day, he would not be a cop. He was like any other rowdy underage partier on this ridiculously patriotic holiday and he was going to enjoy every second of it.

The Boston Harbor has been Killian's favorite place to be since his move. Growing up he had found solace in the sea and worked hard to save up enough money to buy himself a small fishing boat. He escaped to the water, was a slave to the smell of the salt air and the way the waves rocked beneath the floor of his little ship. His older brother had shared that passion with him, and at first, after it happened Killian couldn't sail, couldn't even look at the ocean. Fleeing where he had grown up made it a little easier, and the beauty of the Boston Harbor, a glittering replica of the sky on a clear night made rekindling their relationship easier.

Killian doesn't knock on the door. He wanders through the foyer out onto the back porch where the crowd really started. On his way, he nods here and there at a few people, recognizing some from around town and others from previous parties. Robin is standing behind the bar, pouring drinks and making jokes about accepting tips. For his charity, of course.

"Robin!" Killian calls in greeting.

"Killian, it's great to see you!" Robin bellows, immediately grabbing the bottle of rum and pouring a drink. He raises an eyebrow with the glass midway between the two of them, the coat of arms tattoo on his forearm on full display. "Am I going to get a solicitation for underage drinking?"

Killian just smirks and grabs the drink out of Robin's hand. "If you do, it's not going to be by my hand."

"Happy Fourth of July," Robin laughs, and the two men, neither of who are from the United States and have any right to be throwing a patriotic party, clink their glasses together and drink.

The sun is hot and the smell of sunscreen and fruity drinks, barbecue aromas and salty sea mingle in the air. One of the guests has set up a microphone, speakers, and guitar on the public portion of the docks. Killian finds himself at the center of the crowd, drawn back to Robin and his tales of vigilante justice. At least that is the way he's spinning them for today's party. By his fourth drink, Killian is venturing up stories of his own, tales of navigating the sea and bringing villains to justice. The pain of that reality is muted by the atmosphere of the party.

It isn't until he's at the buffet, chatting with a leggy brunette that he notices a familiar bobbing blonde head across the crowd.

"Excuse me," he murmurs to the brunette, placing an apologetic hand on her upper arm and walking briskly toward where he saw her. He stops when he's a few feet away and his suspicions are confirmed that Emma Swan is at this party.

Of all parties she could go to today, she shows up at this one.

He watches her for a minute and she is very unlike the Emma Swan of this morning. Her long legs stick out from beneath denim shorts and her loose red tank top shows off her toned arms. Her hair cascades down her back in golden waves, quite literally a beacon of light in the crowd of relatively drunk partiers. He knows he's staring, and in the back of his mind a voice reminds him that she's a victim in his first real detective investigation.

Right now, he doesn't care.

She has a red plastic cup in her hand, not privy to the glass tumblers offered by the host of the party. She lifts it to her lips and tilts her head back, downing the rest of the liquid. One of the people in her little crowd must have said something funny, because she throws her hand up to cover her mouth before swallowing her drink and erupting into giggles. She does a lazy spin, a slow observation of the party guests. When her sunglass clad eyes land in his direction, he holds his glass up in a toast and throws the rest of it back. He risks a glance in her direction again and not two seconds later, she is walking over to him.

"Isn't this holiday basically sacrilegious to your people? What are you doing at a Fourth of July Party?" Her words aren't quite slurred, but he can tell she'd had a couple of drinks. Her tone isn't as hardened and there's a flush on her cheeks. If he could see her eyes through this sunglasses, he's sure they'd be the slightest bit glazed over, not drunk, but loose.

He lets out a small laugh, a breath through his nose and smiles. "My people?"

"Yeah, the English or wherever the hell it is you're from."

"I know the host, but I could ask you the same question. What are _you_ doing at a Fourth of July party?" He can't see her eyes because the sunglasses are doing an effective job of covering her bruise, but he feels her narrowed gaze. It's become a familiar glare in the past couple of days.

"It's a distraction."

He holds his arms out and shrugs. "And do cops not deserve distractions as well?" He glances at her empty cup. "May I?" he asks.

She raises an eyebrow. "Encouraging underage drinking are we, Officer?"

He leans forward, the drinks he's had also loosening his inhibitions and his ability to distinguish professionalism from whatever the hell he'd been feeling for Emma Swan since he saw her with that black eye. "Between you and me, love, I'm as guilty of it as you are." He beckons again toward her drink but she shakes her head.

"How old are you?" she presses.

"Nineteen." He's not sure he should have told her, but at his answer, a small smile plays at the corners of her mouth.

She inclines her chin toward the bar and says, "Lead the way."


	6. Bottoms Up

"Would it be stupid? To go in the midst of all of this?" August wonders out loud. The two left the precinct before Marco and Sarah this morning and hadn't bothered to contact them since. Emma understood her distance from August's parents. She had only been with them for a few months and one of those months was spent still recovering from Sarah's heart attack. But August always talked about this great relationship he had with his father growing up and sometimes, Emma blamed herself for the distance that seemed to be between them.

They had ended up at a cafe at the end of a narrow alleyway that ran perpendicular to the harbor. They sit outside on the cobblestone patio, their drinks resting on mosaic tabletops. At the end of the alleyway is a clear, small window of the water as it shimmers under the wake from all of the boats that are out in celebration today.

She purses her lips in thought and shrugs her shoulders. "You know, probably. And how would I explain this eye?"

"Wear sunglasses."

"These scratches?"

"A cat."

"Whose cat?"

August smirks and takes a sip of his iced tea. "We took a trip to see my grandma, I wanted you to see what extended family was like."

Emma doesn't flinch from the joke the way she would have in the past. She just gives him a look of mock outrage before taking a bite of the chocolate cake she ordered.

"I was just thinking this morning," she muses out loud, "how I had never seen any real kind of July Fourth celebration."

"Well that makes my decision easier, doesn't it?"

"But I don't really think we should go, August," she protests. "Honestly. I don't want him to think we're hiding but what if something goes wrong and –"

"Emma."

"I will not let anything happen to you because of me, August." He had been looking down at his phone, but he looks up after Emma's sentiments. He puts the phone down, pushes it to the side, and folds his hands on top of the table. A cricket chirps from the flower box next to them, part of the soundtrack of summer. His jaw clenches and his eyes wander a bit before landing back on Emma.

"You do understand that this is my business and not yours, don't you?" When she nods, he continues. "The only reason it became your fight is because you're so stubborn you had to physically throw yourself in the way. If anyone should be concerned about somebody else getting hurt, it should be me about you."

"I can take care of myself," she asserts.

"Yeah, you've made that pretty clear."

"I'm sorry I didn't grow up in a Brownstone in Boston. I've been jumping from home to home for seventeen years. I've had to take care of myself," she recalls, a memory of an older boy stealing from her suitcase and the way he had taunted her until she lashed out. He left her alone after that. "You're welcome to join me at the next one if you want a real life example."

"Why do you keep insisting on the fact that you leaving is going to fix everything?" August is starting to get frustrated. Emma bites her lip to hold back the words she really wants to say, the ones that are always on the tip of her tongue.

"August, I can't stay somewhere I'm not wanted. I can't stay."

"Emma," he groans, running his hands through his hair and tugging at the roots. "You can't just _leave_ you have unfinished business here now. You have an obligation."

"I don't have any obligations."

"You're kidding me, right?" She opens her mouth to fight back, but he shakes his head. "Forget it. Seriously, forget it. Forget it all. We're going to that party because we damn well deserve it."

August explained the event to her on their way to the harbor. He knew someone named Will Scarlet who had done some work for a man named Robin Locksley in the past. Will extended the party invite to August. The two had met at community college a couple of years back and kept in touch through texts and internet posts.

The townhouse was jaw-dropping, as was the immensity of the crowd. As soon as they made it onto the back dock Emma was hit with the smell of hamburgers and hotdogs. Her stomach growled, despite having downed a piece of cake not more than one hour ago. The pair made a beeline for the food, where Will and August ran into each other.

"Oye, August Boothe it's good to see ya!"

"Will," August nods.

"You don't seem as excited to see me as I do to see you! And your friend here," Will smirks and turns toward Emma. "WIll Scarlet at your service."

"Hello, WIll." She doesn't offer her name and he lets out an exaggerated sigh.

"Do you have a name of should I just refer to you as 'August's blond lady friend?'"

"Emma." She smirks despite herself.

"All right, Emma, let's get you and August some drinks, shall we?" Will raises his voice, a bit below a yell. "It's a party after all!" He's met with a roar from the crowd of people and Emma feels a strange mix of wanting to leave and wanting to stay. She had never been to a party this size before and it intrigued her.

When they approached the drink station, Will made a quick effort to introduce the two of them to Robin who was hosting the party from behind the bar. Emma grabbed her cup after Will had poured probably too much vodka and not enough soda.

Their group expanded from the three of them to a sizable circle, where Emma met some new people. A pair of sisters named Ana and Elsa told stories of their trek through the Norwegian mountains, a graduation gift to Elsa from their parents.

"It was an attempt at getting us to know more about our culture," she explained, a skeptical look on her delicate face.

"Yeah, and all I learned was that I really do not do well for too long in the cold like that," Ana frowns. "I think I almost froze to death."

"Yes, but we got to spend time together," Elsa points out.

"Which was good," Ana agrees with a nod. "Because I haven't seen her in years. She's been away at some high-tech science boarding school." Ana makes a face and Elsa laughs, placing an loving arm across her sister's shoulders.

Emma's head feels a bit fuzzy, and she's glad nobody has asked about her scratches. The healing throb of her eye has taken a back seat as she enjoys the feel of the sun on the top of her head and her exposed skin. She'd drank before, but with the wrong types of people. She'd drank with people who drank to get her drunk, who drank to get themselves drunk so they could forget about being stuck with the foster-kid label. Some of them had ways out, some of them would be adopted right out from under Emma's nose, and she never understood why everyone would look past her, would give her up without a second thought.

She takes another sip of her drink and frowns into her cup when she realizes it's now empty. Will makes a joke that she finds particularly funny with the alcohol muddling her brain and she lets out a laugh, covering her mouth to prevent herself from spiting her drink everywhere. The cup dangles from her fingers and she does a lazy scan of the crowd, knowing in the back of her mind she's supposed to be keeping an eye-out for someone in particular.

That someone is not Officer Killian Jones, yet there he is, standing not ten feet away from her, raising his glass in a toast and downing the rest of it.

"Be right back," she mumbles, not sure if anyone really heard her. She approaches him, slightly irritated at how casual he is. How casually, effortlessly attractive. She shakes it off and tries to lace some irritation into her voce. "Isn't this holiday basically sacrilegious to your people? What are you doing at a Fourth of July Party?"

He laughs in response. "My people?"

"Yeah, the English or wherever the hell it is you're from."

"I know the host, but I could ask you the same question. What are _you_ doing at a Fourth of July party?"

"It's a distraction."

He holds his arms out and shrugs. "And do cops not deserve distractions as well?" His sunglasses aren't so dark that she can't see where his gaze travels, and he glances at her now empty cup. "May I?" he asks.

She raises an eyebrow. "Encouraging underage drinking are we, Officer?"

When he leans forward, her breath catches in her throat. He's so close to her. The last time he was this close she hadn't been able to see much, but thanks to Sarah's blessed insistence on getting her prescription sunglasses, she can see everything. She can see the scar on his right cheek and the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. "Between you and me, love, I'm as guilty of it as you are."

"How old are you?" she presses.

"Nineteen."

She knows he's investigating her case, and she knows she should trust him because he's a cop. But right now, Emma doesn't even trust herself. Being this close to him is electric, she can feel the energy practically lifting tendrils of her hair in static electricity. Maybe it's the alcohol talking.

They walk side by side through the crowd, which has somehow managed to get thicker. Killian saunters up to the bar, not bothering to wait behind the crowd of people pining for drinks and Robin's attention. He holds up two fingers and Robin nods in understanding. He pours a pair of shots right in front of them and Killian hands one to Emma. As she glances down, she notices the tattoo on his forearm, an intricate piece of a blood red heart, entwined with thorns, pierced down the middle with an ornate looking dagger. There's a name across the heart, but he moves his arm before she can make it out. If he notices her looking at it, he doesn't say anything.

"Here's to," he pauses, and a sort of twisted half smile lifts the corner of his mouth. "Here's to breaking the law, Swan. Cheers." She watches him throw his rum back and then downs hers. She makes a mental note to cut herself off.

"Cheers," she replies, putting her empty shot glass down on the bar. She turns away and heads toward the railing that overlooks the harbor, suddenly feeling too close to too many people. She knew he'd follow her. She leans on her forearms, the breeze pushing her hair back, the salt air kissing at her face. He leans with his back against the rail, his elbows propping him up.

"So, Emma," he starts, and she turns from the water to glance at him with a smirk before glancing back at the ships.

"So, Killian." She tests out his name without the word 'Officer' in front of it. She glances at him again, this game they're playing of not really looking at each other but being hyper aware of their proximity. She's feeling particularly intrigued by the way his energy seems to pulse off of him and the way his breath sort of hitched when she said his name. He's quick to regain his composure and he lets his arm brush against hers, an obviously fake accident. She knows this game, but with him, she kind of wants to play it.

"What's your favorite July Fourth memory? I'd say this might be mine."

"This might be yours? This party?"

"No, not this party," he says. "I've been to this party for years in a row, now. It's always the same." When he doesn't elaborate she's forced to look at him again, which she is trying really hard not to do because he makes her head spin even more now that her walls aren't as strong because of the rum. "This particular part of the party. Standing here with you."

"Please," she scoffs.

"What, you don't believe me?"

"No, I do not believe you," she assures him.

"Why is that so hard to believe?"

"You barely know me."

"You know, I can't explain it, but ever since –"

He's cut off by a shriek and a splash from the end of the dock. A woman is screaming, pointing at the water where someone fell in.

"Please!" she cries. "Please, he can't swim! Please!" She is so distressed that she physically pulls at her hair, falling to her knees at the edge of the dock, either ill-versed in swimming as well or too drunk to go in after him.

Emma doesn't think twice. She turns, her hair whipping with her abrupt movement as she runs toward the end of the dock. She hears Killian murmur a disgruntled "bloody hell" behind her.

She offers up a silent wish that her intoxication doesn't impair her too much as she feels cool liquid against her skin and the sounds of the party are muffled as she's submerged in the shimmering waters of the harbor.


	7. Close Calls

_A bit of dialogue borrowed from the one and only Tallahassee! Can't take credit for that first real conversation and I love it so much so here it is._

* * *

It is particularly hard to come to an abrupt halt after sprinting across the docks and it is particularly hard to come to an abrupt halt after having a bit too much rum.

A lot too much rum, if Killian was being honest.

Emma took off without hesitation when that woman started screaming, and he made a mental note about her character that he connected to the lies he knew she was telling about her case. He reprimanded himself. He wasn't supposed to be thinking about work.

The woman on the dock is still shrieking and he lets out an irritated sound.

"Darling," he starts, gripping her upper arms and gently tugging her up to her feet again. "Give her space, she needs a clear path out of the water." The woman is so drunk she's almost dead weight as he tries to move her out of the way. She's crying and he passes her off to a willing patron at the party.

Killian curses himself. He places his hands on his thighs and stares into the water, looking for a spark of blonde hair in the depths of the ocean. He starts to panic, and August comes rushing up next to him, nearly knocking him over.

"Did she just –"

"Aye."

"Dammit, Emma!" He turns away in anger, taking a few steps away from Killian before returning to his spot next to him.

Killian is on the verge of jumping in after her, but not a second too soon she breaks the surface of the water with a gasp, her hair plastered to her forehead, glasses missing, an unconscious child in her arms.

"I can't prop him up, you've gotta pull him up! Killian!" She's breathless and Killian rushes to action, reaching out toward the water and grabbing the boy by his arms. Free from his weight, Emma manages to make it to the dock unharmed and August helps pull her up. She lands on all fours, coughing up excess water with almost violent spasms.

Killian's attention is on the young boy laying on the dock in front of him, his ebony hair stuck to his skin, his face pale, his chest unmoving. Killian begins to administer CPR, the adrenaline from the situation clearing his mind from the alcohol. _One, two, three_ , he counts in rough whispers out loud, the situation eerily familiar but also completely separate from the last time he tried to resuscitate someone.

He prayed this time he wouldn't fail.

There is an abrupt change in the atmosphere around them when the boy coughs to life and rolls over, immediately crying out for his mom. The woman who had been shrieking runs back over to her son, falling to her knees so hard they'll be surely bruised tomorrow. She thanks him, but he can barely hear her. His eyes seek out Emma's and she's on the dock, sitting back on her knees, still breathing with labored movements. The sun has started to set and Killian is just now realizing how late it is. It's past seven, and the way the sky is shades of lemon, rose, and crimson behind her makes Killian feel like he's staring at a medieval portrait of a siren rather than an impulsive, dangerously beautiful young woman.

The dock shakes as Robin runs up to them. "What the hell happened?"

"Her son," Killian says, standing and gesturing toward the woman and her son who have started to make their way back to the center of the party as if nothing had happened. "Her son fell in. Emma jumped in to save him."

Robin turns to Emma and holds out his hand to her. She grabs it and stands. His eyes are wide in earnest thanks and he grabs her hand with both of his, the sincerest _thank you_ Killian had ever heard leaving his lips.

"Do you know the boy, mate?" Killian ventures.

Robin looks at Killian and then turns back toward the woman and her son, who are making their way, Killian realizes, into the house.

"Do I know the boy?" Robin repeats. "He's my son."

"And your wife?" Killian presses.

He shakes his head. "No, not anymore. Let me fetch some towels for you."

The sun is setting fast and the beauty of the sunset over the harbor is slowly morphing into the endless stretch of midnight blue and shimmering lights. Killian turns back toward Emma and takes a few steps toward her. He tries to make light of the situation. "I hope I don't upset you, Emma, but I think we make quite the team. Maybe you should try your hand a public service." Her gaze stays straight ahead and he sighs. "Are you all right, love?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." She seems almost irritated and Killian frowns, watching as she takes the towel from Robin, draping it over her shoulders, and walking away, August close on her heels.

/~*~/

After the boy nearly drowned, the crowd thinned a bit, but not by much. Fireworks over the harbor had yet to happen and people had dessert and Fourth of July themed cocktails to ingest. Killian himself had eaten a burger and then poured himself another drink once his nerves had settled.

It wasn't the boy that had unsettled him so much as Emma. She had been so quick to rush into the water after him and he wasn't sure she would come back up. She had been as impaired as he was, and he knew he probably wouldn't have gotten to that boy in time.

In part, he was mad at himself because he knew he should never had drank that much. And yet here he was, taking another sip of his rum because he's watching Emma again and she's much more somber, her bruised eye hidden in shadow and her hair dried to a wave akin to a mermaid's. He's also mad at her for diving in like that, and he's mad at her for being so alluring, and he's mad at himself for not being able to control his reaction to her.

Overall, he's _very_ mad at himself.

Another sip of his drink and he's striding over to her.

He ducks his head and leans a bit too close. "Can we talk?" he murmurs near her ear.

She still holds the towel tight over her shoulders, closing herself off to the conversation around her.

"Are you going to try to get me drunk again, Officer?" But there's a lightness to her words.

"Ah, so we're back to Officer. Well, I'll only try to get you drunk if you'll let me. I am a gentleman you know."

She glances at him and inclines her chin toward the bar, mimicking their earlier conversation, and he smiles at her. The crowd at the bar has dispersed over toward the edge of the dock in order to get the best view of the fireworks, which were due to light up the sky in a few minutes. Emma slides onto a barstool and Killian inches behind the bar. He pours them their drinks and they don't toast this time.

"That was very heroic of you, Swan," he ventures after a minute of silence.

"Anyone would have done it," she insists.

"I don't think you've quite hit the nail on the head with that one. You were the only one who went after him. You saved the boy."

"I'm no savior."

"Is that what you tell yourself while you're spinning that story about Marco attacking you?"

Her body tenses and he hates himself because he's effectively screwed the almost friendly air between them and she's back on high alert.

"Oh, so this is part of my investigation now?" Her accusation is heated, laced with anger.

He hit a nerve and he sees the conflict in her eyes. He knows he's taking a risk, but he keeps talking, liquid courage doing its thing. "You're afraid to talk. To reveal yourself, to trust me. But I don't need you to share. You're something of an open book."

Her eyebrows draw in and she frowns at him. "Am I?"

"Quite."

"Are we just talking about me or are we back to my case?" She stares at him from under her lashes and he continues, avoiding her question for now.

"You jumped in after that boy because you were fueled by something nobody else in this crowd seems to have."

"And what's that?"

"You didn't want to abandon him the way you've been abandoned."

"Have I?"

"Like I said," he takes another sip of his drink, "Open book."

"That doesn't make me an open book and you thinking you've figured me out doesn't make you perceptive. You've read my file, it's cheating." As she sits up straighter, the towel falls off her shoulder and Killian's gaze flicks to the exposed skin. He's looking back at her face when she says, "You think you've got me figured out. Why don't you just close the case now."

"Not enough evidence," he explains. She grabs her drink and takes a sip, looking out towards the harbor. He watches the creamy exposed skin of her throat as she swallows her drink and he forces himself to look away from her, to follow her gaze towards the ships. He lusts after the ships and their freedom, thinking of the day he can finally buy one of his own and set sail to who knows where. "Beautiful, aren't they?" His voice is a few levels above a whisper, quiet in awe.

"Hm. So tell me, Killian." She leans forward on the bar, the the towel falling off her shoulders completely. Leaning forward causes her shirt to dip lower and the officer in him is shot to hell as he glances down at her chest before catching himself and keeping eye-contact. A slow smirk spreads across her face and he leans forward, drawn to her like a magnet.

"Tell you what, love?"

She leans forward even more and he follows suit. His nose brushes against hers and his teeth graze his lower lip. He can feel her breath brush against his face in a sigh and he clenches his fist on top of the bar to force himself from reaching out to cup the back of her neck and pull her face to his.

His fantasy is effectively and abruptly quelled when she grabs his arm, pulls her face away, and turns his forearm toward her. She squints her eyes at his tattoo.

"Milah," she reads out loud. "Who's Milah?"

He is gentle when he tugs away from her. He curses himself for falling for her distraction and stares down at the bar, memories flashing in front of his eyes as if he were reliving it. He lets himself dwell in it for a second more before pushing it away.

"Someone from long ago."

"Where is she?"

He grabs his drink, and steps around the bar, eliminating the barrier between them and standing in front of her. She has to look up to meet his gaze.

"She's gone."

"Why did you tell me that?"

"You asked."

She shakes her head. The answer isn't good enough for her.

"I had insight into your world, I figured I'd return the favor."

"Favor?" She raises an eyebrow. He shrugs.

"I'm glad your eye is healing. I hate that bruise."

"You and me both."

Her attention is drawn to the crowd over his shoulder as a vibrating murmur of excitement passes across them in waves. The fireworks are about to start.

Emma slides off the stool and grabs her discarded towel off the floor. Her movements cause her hair to brush against his arm and raise goosebumps on his skin. She glances at him one last time before walking back toward August, who animatedly gestures toward the spectacle in the sky. She smiles, watches with the same awe a child would. The blues and whites flash across her face and Killian watches her, knowing tomorrow they'd forget this, knowing tomorrow she wouldn't know Killian Jones the man. She'd know Killian Jones the officer and he'd know Emma Swan the stubborn victim.

But watching her and the way she stood, shoulders back, head high, guarded gaze that occasionally shoots in his direction, he knew she was anything but a victim.

She was a savior.


	8. Waiting Game

_Hello all! Welcome to more cryptic insight into Emma and August's secret. Sorry for the delay in updating, but thanks for sticking with me!_

* * *

August had suggested the two of them stay out of the house that night since it was Marco's first day back after making bail. As the cool, mid summer air of the northeast bit at Emma's skin, still slightly damp from her "savior adventure," as August had taken to calling it, she wanted nothing more than to be snuggled in a familiar mattress, not on someone's couch or floor.

"Where were you thinking?" she asks despite herself.

"Well, I have enough on me for a Holiday Inn –"

"A _hotel_?" she stops walking and he sputters to a stop ahead of her. The streets of Boston are still lively, people wandering in and out of bars now that backyard barbecues have ended. The distant sounds of fireworks continue to boom through the air, and across the street, a couple of teenagers light up sparklers and squeal with delight.

"I just thought –"

"We're not spending _money_ on a hotel, August." She starts to walk again and he trails behind her, tail tucked between his legs. "We'll wait until it's later and I'll show you how to sneak in."

"Sneak into my own house?"

"For a neighborhood that prides itself on being safe, your house is surprisingly easy to sneak into."

"Been trouble since the day you showed up, haven't you?" He laughs a bit, but when Emma sends him a sidelong glance she picks up on the tight lines of his face and tension in his jaw.

"August."

"Emma."

"That's not how this has worked and you know it." She starts to feel irritation bubble in her veins at his audacity. The events of the past few days are starting to really catch up with her and the tremor that stirs just beneath her skin hints at the promise of shaking hands if she doesn't get her nerves under control. She picks up her pace and heads toward the diner a block away that makes the best chocolate chip pancakes in the city. Part of her is tempted to head to that bar a bit away that is notorious for not carding, but holiday or not, she doesn't need anymore alcohol.

He sighs. "I'm sorry, Emma. You're right."

"I was right form the beginning and if you would have listened to me in the first place then none of this would have happened." When she pulls the door open, the bell chimes to alert the hostess that the two of them have arrived. With a polite smile, the young girl leads them to a corner booth. The diner is surprisingly crowded, people indulging in late-night breakfasts to ward off their hangovers. The checkerboard tiles and chrome finishes are diner cliché, but something about the food was different from any other diner Emma had ever been to. And she'd had her fair share of diner meals.

When the hostess is out of earshot, August retaliates. "Maybe _you_ should have listened to _me,_ has that though entered your mind at all?"

"Of course it has, you think I'm enjoying this?" She opens her menu with abrupt, angry movements, even though she knows what she wants already, even though her vision is blurry because she lost her glasses at the party. August mirrors her.

"I should just go tell Detective Nolan the truth. I'll survive."

"Your parents won't survive, August. Let me do this. Let me help keep this family together."

He looks at her from over his menu. Emma is hit with a memory of when she arrived at the Boothe's home, of how Marco smelled like pine when he hugged her and Sarah's smile infiltrated her mental walls like honey through thinly veiled cracks. August was stoic, but he never stopped watching her.

"Why would I risk this? Why have I gone along with this?" His questions are directed at himself, but, as always, his gaze follows her.

She answers his questions with one of her own. "Why do you feel like you have to protect me, August? I've been alone my entire life. I know how to handle myself. I know what I'm doing."

"Not against this you don't," he snaps. "I made some serious mistakes. I never –"

"What can I get you two?" Their server approaches their table and Emma gives her a tight lipped smile.

"Chocolate chip pancakes and a hot chocolate with cinnamon, please."

"I'll have a burger, medium. And a water. Thanks."

The server writes down their orders, smiles, nods, and heads back toward the kitchen. Emma jumps on the silence.

"You did make a serious mistake and you're lucky I stepped in or your family would be shot to hell right now."

"Like it isn't already," he hisses. Emma visibly flinches away from him and looks down at the table.

"It's better than the alternative."

"And what's the alternative?"

"Are you really going to make me say it?" August raises an eyebrow in challenge and she crosses her arms over her chest. The two of them continue to stare at each other, in a battle that would rival any real brother-sister duo. The server drops their drinks off and Emma wraps her hands around the warm mug. She hadn't been able to rid herself of the chill in her bones ever since the party and the air conditioning in the diner is not helping. "August," she starts again. "Your dad would be dead. Your mom would be dead. _You'd_ be dead. I don't know how you aren't already."

"And you thought getting the cops involved would prevent that?"

Emma closes her eyes and sighs. Killian's face flashes behind her closed lids.

"I hope for your sake it does."

August seems to have resigned himself because when she opens her eyes, he's still staring at her, but there's something that looks like defeat in his gaze.

"And I hope for your sake. Because you're involved now, Emma." Their food is placed down on the table and the server doesn't say a word this time.

Emma takes a bite of her pancakes. "No turning back now."

The two finish their meal in silence, pay in silence, walk back to the Boothe home in silence. August follows Emma as she enters through the back fence and leads them to the garden situated against the back of the garage of the brownstone. The garden has wooden lattice as a backboard, which Emma promptly starts climbing.

"You climb up my mother's garden?"

"I only did it once," she whispers from her perch. "When I first got here."

"Why?"

She lets out a struggled breath as she climbs higher. "None of your business. Are you going to climb?"

"The front door is easier," he replies, his voice further away now that she made it to the top of the garage. Her window sits right above the roof, and she always keeps it unlocked, an old habit from her previous foster homes. She realizes now, as she shimmies the screen open, that she really should start locking it.

She glances down at August and catches his blurry image climbing effortlessly up the roof. He's swift, and when he makes it to Emma's side, he slips into her window before her.

"You're not the only one who's snuck in this way. You should really start locking that." He points to the window that is now behind them.

Part of Emma is surprised and the other part scolds herself at her stupidity. Of course he knew how to sneak into his house. In her room, she grabs her glasses off the dresser just in time to watch August's face change from triumph to fear, just in time to watch the door click behind him and figure out that this boy is just as restless as she is.

/~*~/

Marco and Sarah kept their distance from Emma for the rest of the week. The morning after the Fourth of July, there had been a screaming match. It felt so foreign in this home, but so familiar at the same time. Emma screamed back, Marco made threats, he even went as far as to raise his hand. He was quick to retract when he realized his rage was getting the best of him and Emma let out a tiny sigh of relief.

Sarah stayed in her bedroom.

The entire house was teetering on such a precarious edge Emma thought it really would be better for her to run. She could hide for four months. She could keep herself out of harm's way for that long. Regina would probably be relieved to let go of Emma's case. She'd probably make a fuss about it for a week and then move on with her other more hopeful cases. Everyone around Emma had lost hope in her chance at a family a long time ago, including Emma. Why should this house be any different.

This is exactly the sentiment Emma found herself expressing in different ways for the next couple of weeks. Detective Nolan and Killian Jones were not giving up.

Her bruises were healed, and with her less vulnerable exterior came the less accommodating atmosphere of a no-nonsense interrogation. Gone were the stuffed animals and hand-drawn pictures, the soft lighting replaced with florescent bulbs that drained the color from the room.

"His trial is in a couple of months, you can have him put away!" David was yelling, his fists clenched on top of the table. Emma stared right at him, refusing to break her resolve.

"Why won't you tell us the truth, Emma?" Killian's voice was something Emma heard even when she wasn't near him. While out she'd do a double-take at any foreign accents or dark haired strangers. She found herself almost looking forward to being brought in for questioning if it meant being this close to him. She punished herself by withholding the satisfaction of looking at him.

"I've told you the truth."

The door opens and their commanding officer sticks his head in. "Detective," he says, throwing a glance at Emma before looking at David. "A word."

David lets out a sigh and pushes out of his seat. Emma watches him leave, still intent on not looking at Killian. When the door shuts behind him, she picks a spot on the wall behind Killian to stare at.

"Do you think we don't know a lie when we see one?" His voice is conversational, as is his posture. He's leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced across his middle.

Emma's tone, however, is much more irritated. "I can ask you the same question. Don't test me, I can always tell when someone is lying to me."

"Ah, and I'm quite perceptive so I'm offended that you think you can get away with this."

At that, her gaze snaps to his. When she doesn't respond, he smirks and leans forward.

"I've seen the look on your face, Emma. I've seen it before. I've seen the constant fear of abandonment –"

"I'm not afraid," she hisses.

"I've seen the constant calculation and the inability to accept that people are trying to help you. You can't fool me. Why are you lying?"

"Give it up while you can, Officer. I'm not changing my story."

"You know we talk to August. You know he could give you up at any time."

"Why are you treating me like a criminal?"

"Why are you acting like one?"

Emma lets out a strangled sound and she pushes back from the table. She starts to pace the room like a caged animal. There isn't enough air in here. She feels herself on the edge of something dangerous and she needs to pull back. But when he gets up and corners her, it makes it near impossible to breathe.

"Why are you acting like one?" he repeats. They are so close, and it's the first time since that party that they're in each other's air space.

"My whole life has been a series of one home to another. I don't know why my time in the system can't end the same way it started. Why can't I leave this damn city?"

"We have to close this case, Emma. We have to put the bad guys away, it's what we do." He lets out what sounds like an unamused chuckle and cocks his head to the side. His hair falls over his forehead and Emma presses her hands into the wall behind her for stability.

"August won't tell you anything either." Her volume is low, but her sentiments are clear and strong.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"I wouldn't be," Killian presses. "You've got a strong hold on him, but he has plans of his own, too."

Emma shakes her head. "He's like my brother."

"Aye, blood is thicker than water I've heard it all before. I've been there, done that."

Over the course of their time working on this case, Emma watched as Killian has gone from tentative trainee to overly-confident almost detective. His confidence is obvious as he leans forward even more, nearly whispering in her ear.

"Maybe, Miss Swan, I should stop treating you like a victim. Maybe you _are_ the criminal in this case. Maybe your big secret is that you're the one putting this family in danger and that's why you need to run."

"That's not true." Her voice is barely audible. She hopes to God that the goosebumps on her skin go unnoticed.

"I think it's true."

"You don't think it's true," she scoffs. He pulls back and looks at her face, an eyebrow raised in question. "I told you, I know when someone's lying to me."

"Maybe if we ever get this story straight you can start working for our side, what do you think?"

"This is the second time you've offered me a job in law enforcement. Are you even allowed to do that while you're still training?"

He ignores her question. "Emma, let us put the real bad guy away. You are not protecting anyone by lying like this."

When the door opens behind them, Killian doesn't bother to jump apart the way Emma hoped he would. David sticks his head in and frowns. "Emma, you're free to go. We can't keep you here anymore."

Emma nods and her stomach churns at the strange mix of relief and despair that she feels when walking away from Killian. She is on her way down the front steps of the precinct when she feels a hand on her forearm. She turns around already knowing who came out after her.

"I'll figure this out if it's the last thing I do, Emma. Off the record?" He leans forward again, except this time he really does whisper in her ear. "Don't mess with a cop intent on avenging his past. I'll help you or I'll help the person you're hurting."

"I am not the one you need to put away," she insists.

His hand is still on her forearm, his face is still inches from hers, and to the strangers passing by on the sidewalk, their intimate stance could be perceived as a couple in the middle of a secret.

"Prove me wrong, Emma. I'm on your side."

Her breathing has become quite shallow ever since being in that interrogation room and her head is starting to spin. She needs food, or space, or to get the hell out of Boston.

She can't run, she promised herself she wouldn't run.

The sentence that leaves her mouth surprises even her as she pulls away from Killian's touch. She doesn't even bother looking at him when she says, "Meet me at the harbor."

The electricity in the air lets her know that he'll be there.


	9. Bad Form

_Hi everyone! Thank you for being patient with me! I have never been to Boston, so if my imagined knowledge of the harbor bothers you, let me know how I can fix it! Happy reading, as usual._

* * *

Killian knows Emma Swan is no criminal. He knows it from the way her eyes flash whenever he threatens her honesty, because a real criminal wouldn't pride herself on her lie, she would just be afraid of getting caught. He knows it from the way the tension in her shoulders reminds him so much of the tension he carries in his. He tries not to overthink their similarities, but he knows for damn sure that he is not this comfortable around Emma Swan because she's a dark-souled criminal. His fingertips drum an erratic rhythm against his bicep, his arms crossed as he leans against the railing of the harbor. After Emma's interrogation this morning, he'd received a text from an unknown number with the words _ten thirty_. It was ten thirty seven and Emma had yet to show.

His brain is spinning with what-ifs as he thinks about what she would tell him. The two of them haven't had any kind of outside conversation since their encounter at Robin's party last month. Would she tell him what he needs to crack her case? Will he become a detective after this? His stomach churns as he thinks of other possible conversation scenarios the two of them could have under the overcast sky at the edge of the harbor tonight.

Tick tock, Killian finds himself losing patience. Of course a detective in a special victim's case shouldn't be meeting with the victim outside of the precinct, but Killian had never done things the way he was supposed to and it's gotten him this far in life. He runs a worried hand through his hair, glancing at the time on his phone again.

 _Ten fifty-five._

"Where are you, Swan?" he mumbles out loud. He glances left, then right, and decides to follow his instincts and walk towards the end of the harbor. He passes storefronts and restaurants, buzzing with life on this balmy summer night in Boston. He passes the touristy allure without a second glance and starts to pick up his pace as he nears the secluded alleyways that dwell past the hub. He can't explain the urgency his steps have taken on, and his hand instinctually reaches toward his waistband where his weapon would be if he were in uniform.

He comes to a halt, the noises of the city muffled behind him. He strains to hear over the sounds of the water, listens for heavy breathing, whispered pleas, or broken sobs. He doesn't hear any of that, but a pain-filled grunt has him running toward the darkness of the alleys. He glances into the darkness and the flash of blonde hair is all he needs to spike his adrenaline.

"Hey!" he calls out, running full force toward the back of the alley. Emma is on the ground, pinned down by a man that looks completely fueled by rage. All Killian can see is the top of his sandy head, but the anger is evident in the cruel position he's put Emma in. At the sound of Killian's voice, he man glances up. His eyes flash in the dark and Emma manages to look back and see him as well.

"Don't you dare take another step forward," the man says. His voice is low, completely in control. His movements are quick as he reaches one hand into his pocket and pulls out a knife, which he holds against Emma's neck. Killian stutters to a stop, nearly tripping over himself. A cold sweat has broken out against his skin. The pulse in his neck is so rapid that it almost doesn't feel like his heart is beating anymore.

"Killian, it's okay," Emma manages to say. She faces her attacker again and Killian can imagine the smug look in her eyes as she speaks. "He won't hurt me."

"I wouldn't be so sure, princess," he spits out.

"He won't," she repeats, directing her words at Killian. "He knows he's not allowed. He knows he can't. He just got lucky running into me tonight."

" _Lucky_?" Killian is incredulous. He wants to move forward to get a better look at this man's face, which is still covered by the shadows of the alley. He wants to throw him off of Emma and keep her safe.

"He's lucky. He's lucky because he gets to gloat now. He gets to go back to his boss and the rest of his pathetic lackeys and he gets to say he cornered me, that he nearly had me! He nearly killed me!"

"Don't tempt me," he replies.

Emma continues to ramble. "You know he won't be happy with you. You know he's angry at _me_ specifically, because I ruined his plan. I ruined it all. I'm a thorn in his side, but he wants to be the one who gets rid of me. I know it and you know it, so why are you bothering with the theatrics?"

Killian is finding it hard to make sense of what Emma is saying. As always, when it comes to her situation, her sentences are cryptic and unclear, but her voice keeps carrying across the shadows to him for an immeasurable amount of time. It dawns on him suddenly that she's distracting her attacker, and that's all it takes to set Killian back into motion.

He inches backward into his own shadows, starts to move around to the side of the alley. His plan is to grab the man off Emma from behind, because if he were to push him off sideways, things could get very messy with that knife.

Killian's movements are calculated, slow and quiet as he creeps toward them. Emma is still talking, but the tone of her voice has changed. She still sounds confident and in control, but there is more anger seeping into her words.

" _How dare you_?" she seethes.

"You're too predictable, Emma," the man responds. "So easy. I can't believe it's taken any of us a month to get to you like this. That was a stupid move you pulled, wandering along the harbor by yourself. You should know better than that."

At this point, Killian is exactly where he wants to be. He reaches forward, grabs the man by the collar of his shirt, and slams him down against the pavement, knee landing on the wrist that was holding the knife. Emma rolls away from them and reaches for the knife that has clattered to the pavement.

"And you should know better than to treat a lady like that, mate," Killian sneers. "It's bad form." Hovering over the man like this, Killian has a better view of the attacker's face. His eyes are dark enough to rival the night sky during a new moon, his hair close cropped and sand-colored. There is nothing attractive or redeemable about his pudgy face and dry, scaly skin.

Killian finds out rather quickly that he underestimated this man's strength. In a flash, he finds himself struggling to keep his advantage. The man's wrist beneath Killian's knee starts to shimmy its way out of its hold and before Killian can make sense of what is going on, he feels the searing pain of a right hook to the jaw, sees red beneath the man's fist against his eye, struggles to catch his breath as the man's foot comes in contact with his ribs once, twice, three times, hears Emma's shriek and reaches out to stop her from getting involved again.

The physical assaults stop and Killian rolls over onto his side. Emma has thrown herself onto her attacker's back, distracting him enough for Killian to catch his breath. Killian makes it to his feet just in time to watch Emma get thrown to the ground. Killian falls to his knees again at her side, unable to make sense of the desperation he feels coursing through his veins. He can tell his nose is bleeding from the blow to his face, and he can feel the bruises on his ribs as he winces with each movement, but he doesn't care because Emma's eyes have slipped shut and her breathing is shallow, and he's not sure he'll be able to forgive himself if she doesn't open her eyes to look at him again.

"Emma?" he croaks out, reaching for her, brushing her hair off her face.

From behind them, the attacker's voice sounds triumphant. "Watch your back, Emma Swan."

The desperation Killian felt a moment ago is quick to transform itself into anger. The rage fuels him as he snaps his head toward the man's retreating figure. His muscles coil, about to pounce and tackle the man to the ground again, when he feels a delicate grip on his wrist. He glances down at Emma's fingers against his skin, flicks his eyes to her face where her eyes are watching him.

"Let him go," she whispers.

"Let him go?" Killian cries. "Are you insane?" But he can't find it in himself to pull his wrist out of her grip. "Bloody hell, Swan, what are you involved in?"

She doesn't beg him, just keeps her eyes trained on his. Her chest is still rising and falling with heavy breaths and a slash on her jaw that Killian hadn't noticed before has started to bleed. Emma offers up no other explanation, and Killian falls back to rest on his heels. "Now I have a damn dirty investigation. I could lose my nonexistent badge for this."

Emma turns away from him, releases his wrist and props herself up on her elbows. She stares at the mouth of the alley, gives a slight shake of her head.

"I almost made it eighteen years," she whispers. With a heavy sigh, she readjusts herself to mirror Killian's position. The two sit across from each other, on their knees, leaning back against their heels. They regain their composure, catch their breath, take inventory of their injuries.

Emma's gaze roams across Killian's entire body. He can feel it like a caress, like she's tracing her fingertips along the planes of his face, like she's tracing the bruises and scraps that have materialized against his skin. He feels his breathing hitch again, this time from a different kind of adrenaline. He risks it – he knows it's stupid, but he risks reaching out to touch her. His touch is gentle as his fingertips grab her jaw, gently turn her head to the right so he can examine the slash on her skin. It's not deep enough to need stitches, but it needs to be cleaned and bandaged to avoid infection.

"We need to get out of here," she says. But she doesn't pull away from him, and the slight waver in her voice encourages him.

"I have a first aid kit. Let me clean this up."

"I'm not in the mood to play doctor," she snaps. He smirks, reassured that Emma's returned in full force.

"Glad to see the events of the night haven't affected you."

She sighs and pulls her jaw out of his grip with the same sort of careful movements he had used.

"You need to get that cleaned, and it needs to be done soon or it'll get infected and you'll have a whole new situation to explain to David. I live quite literally around the corner. Let me clean it up."

"So will you," she retorts. His only reply is a stiff nod, because yes, he does have some explaining to do. But how is he going to do it without getting his ass kicked out of the department?

Killian gets up and offers his hand out to Emma. She grabs it. Her steps are wobbly and she hisses in a pained breath through her teeth as the weight on her ankle proves to be a bit more than it can handle at the moment.

"Bastard," she curses under her breath.

"May I?" Killian asks, holding his arm out for her to lean on. She glances at it and to his surprise, takes him up on his offer.

Arm in arm, the two of them walk the two blocks to Killian's apartment. Emma is silent, and Killian doesn't push her. He holds the door open for her, helps her up the three flights of stairs, walks her to his couch, pours her a glass of water, offers her something stronger.

She smirks at him. "Again with the underage drinking. I'm surprised at you, Officer."

He reaches into his liquor cabinet because he damn well needs a drink.

"If you won't drink it, I will. But a gentleman always offers." He grabs two tumblers and pours two drinks. He hands Emma hers and she takes it, no hesitation. They don't make a toast, no grand gestures of friendship or kinship, of survival or fate. They have nothing to celebrate, nothing to commemorate. They're virtual strangers.

But when Emma's eyes don't leave his, even as the two of them tip their drinks back, Killian has to look away. Because the fact that he's working on Emma's case doesn't matter anymore.

He doesn't want Emma Swan to be a stranger.


	10. Walk the Line

This wasn't part of her plan.

She had it all figured out, a subway map of thoughts clogging her brain, each thought taking its own path but all leading to the same end result. It all lead to keeping August and his family safe, it all lead to her imminent solitude. She had nothing to lose, but August had everything. She couldn't let him take on this burden. She had her own private joke with herself that this was her charitable donation to the world, a bitter thought that it would be her last good deed as a kid in the system before she could break free of the shackles that tied her to this oxymoronic life, one where she was constantly moving but constantly tied down.

She didn't owe the system anything, but she owed August quite a bit. He would fight her on this, but she was doing it for him.

She had blind faith in herself and knew she'd make it out alive tonight, but a barely tangible thread of terror had wrapped itself around her heart and had started to squeeze when she was alone with that man tonight. She wasn't sure she'd be able to protect herself, and her heart nearly jumped out of her chest when she heard the recently familiar and strangely comforting English accent echoing through the darkness at the mouth of the alley. She heard his voice and her subway map turned to chaos, all trains crashing into one another with a new end destination.

All now lead to Killian Jones.

She watches him over her glass, watches as he looks away, watches as the alcohol burns on its way down and warms her from the inside out, watches as he walks toward the bathroom and comes back with an ice pack and first aid kit, watches as he raises his eyebrow in a "May I?" gesture and elevates her ankle onto a pillow when she nods in response. The ice is cold on her skin and she winces but lets him continue.

His eyes keep flicking to her face as he rummages through his first aid kit. She leans forward, reaches past him toward the bottle of liquor on the side table. He doesn't even give her a second glance when she pours herself more and drinks it.

"Easy, Swan," he murmurs.

She lets her eyes leave him and finally takes inventory of his apartment.

The space is small with an open floor plan, a kitchen that leads into the living room with windows overlooking the marina. A hallway to the right leads to the bathroom and she's guessing his bedroom. The couch they're sitting on is navy, and the rest of the space is sparsely decorated save for a few nautical themed things here or there.

"You know you're going to have to explain tonight to me," Killian says.

She fights with herself, repressing the urge to say her usual _I don't have to explain anything to you_. Because in reality, she kind of does. She owes Killian Jones.

"Why?" she asks instead.

He raises an eyebrow, incredulous. " _Why_?"

She nods. "It's not like you can use it in your investigation. Like you said, it's dirty."

"It certainly is, but that doesn't mean I'm not interested in knowing what the hell is going on. I'd be able to find a way to use it eventually, I'm sure of it."

"That's a lot of confidence for a barely legal cop."

"Ah, what can I say," he says with a smirk, looking away from her and watching as he pours rubbing alcohol onto a gauze pad. When his eyes meet hers again, she can't place the emotion that's crossed them. "Hold still, love. This will sting a bit." He stands from the end of the couch and sits on the cushion next to her. She is laying down, propped up by her elbows, her ankle elevated on a pillow. He sits next to her torso facing her. Their gazes hold one another's as he presses the gauze against the wound. Her eyes close in a wince as she hisses from the sting. "Warned you," he says. There's a smile in his voice and when Emma opens her eyes she sees it on his face.

"Not funny," she reprimands.

"No, it isn't," he agrees. Silence falls around them as he continues to clean her wound and bandage it up. The skin around his eye is bruising mimicking the black eye she had when she first met Killian Jones. Her cut is cleaned and covered, but his hand has yet to leave her face. In fact, it's moved to cup her cheek in his hand, and she responds by leaning into it.

"How long have we known each other?" she finds herself musing out loud. Her eyes widen in surprise when she realizes she verbalized her thoughts.

"Your case has been open for a couple of months. End of June was the first response to your house, now it's what, beginning of August next week?" His answer was casual but there was an edge to his voice.

"Hmm. Feels longer."

"Aye, it does."

This wasn't part of her plan.

Emma pushes herself up further, off her elbows into a seated position. Her hand reaches out to trace the bruising on his eye, the scar she noticed on his cheek, the end of the day stubble rough beneath her palm. His breath hitches when she cups his cheek the way he's done to hers, his pupils dilate to an endless pool of black, the navy irises now indistinguishable. She leans closer, lets her eyes flutter closed as she feels his hand move from cupping her cheek to cupping her neck, pulling her closer a millimeter at a time. His breath brushes against her face and she feels his nose against hers, a hesitant and encouraging gesture. Her breathing feels labored almost like she won't be able to fully fill her lungs with air until she closes the infinitesimal distance left between them.

And she does.

She lets her lips touch his in a gentle peck, unsure how it'll be received. She knows the underlying tension between them is there because he is working on her case. This is all kinds of wrong. The way he pulls her closer is all kinds of wrong. The way the rhythm changes from hesitant brushes to full on kissing, her lower lip between his, their teeth knocking together from not yet knowing each other's rhythm, the way she feels him smile a bit against her lips when she moans involuntarily when he pulls gently at her hair.

She isn't drunk, but she's not entirely sober, and she's not sure, when they pull apart, if her head is spinning from the alcohol or from the aftermath of the kiss. Her eyes flutter open and she sees he's already watching her.

"We shouldn't have done that," she breathes. Every nerve ending in her body is on fire. She wants so badly to push him back against the couch and keep kissing him, kiss him until she can't feel the fear that clenches at her heart, kiss him until that emptiness she's been feeling for her entire life is filled with him.

"We?" His response is strained.

"Yes, it takes two people to –"

"Swan," he interrupts. "Emma, you –"

"Killian," she interrupts right back. "It takes two people to kiss."

He lets out a small laugh. "Aye, it does. But I wasn't going to put the blame on you."

"You weren't?"

"No, I was going to say you have no idea how long I've wanted to do that." She feels a blush creep up her neck to her cheeks, but doesn't say anything in response. He finally removes his hand from her neck and she acutely feels its absence. He gently grabs her wrist and removes it from his face, entwines their fingers and lets them fall into his lap. "I know it's wrong, but how can it be _wrong_ , Emma? How can that kiss be defined as wrong?"

Her response is almost involuntary as she jumps to defend herself. "Don't get ahead of yourself, buddy. It was just a kiss."

She regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth. Several emotions flash across his face before he lets go of her hand. He stands up, runs a hand through his hair and starts to pace the room.

"Fair enough, Swan. You play a tough game, I should've guessed it wouldn't be that easy."

"What wouldn't be that easy?" she asks despite herself. Why couldn't she just shut up?

He snaps his gaze back to her and now he's angry. He's definitely angry. His pupils are still dilated but from a different kind of passion, and his jaw clenches repeatedly before he answers her.

"Never mind. Forget it. Forget it all. Let's get you back."

"Killian, I –"

"Can you walk?"

"I –"

"Can you walk?" he repeats.

She removes the ice pack and stands up, testing the way her weight feels on her ankle.

"I think it's sprained." She looks up from her foot and sees his eyes have closed. His jaw is still clenched.

"Sit back down," he instructs. She listens to him and watches in silence, pressing her lips together to prevent herself from saying anything else she'll hate herself for. He pulls the coffee table closer to the couch and sits on it, ace bandage in hand. Her foot rests on his knee as he wraps it up with expert precision.

"Killian," she starts.

"Don't worry about it, Emma."

"Killian," she repeats. He finally looks back at her and his expression is completely guarded. She recognizes it as a mirror of her own. She's not sure where to start. How does she tell him that it wasn't just a kiss, that she's pretty sure she's wanted to kiss him since the day he showed up in August's bedroom? She takes a deep breath. "Look, I didn't mean what I said."

"It's fine, Emma."

She shakes her head. "I didn't mean it."

"It shouldn't have happened anyway, I've got my head on the chopping block now."

"I know it shouldn't have happened but that doesn't mean it wasn't going to happen."

"Is that what you truly think?"

She hesitates. "Yes."

"You think it would have happened even if I didn't give you alcohol and seduce you with my abilities to put a bandage on?"

She laughs and breathes a sigh of relief at the same time. "Yes."

He removes her foot from his lap, leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. They are so close again, close enough to kiss, close enough that she feels his breath ghost across her face and she has to force her eyelids not to flutter closed in longing.

"Let's get one thing straight, Emma." His tone is conversational but there's a serious edge to it. "I started this case with the intention of bringing justice to a civilian so that I can get my police badge and take care of some personal business from my past."

Confusion colors her voice as she responds. "Okay…"

"That's how this started, but I'm not sure how it's going to end."

He stands and holds his hand out to her. She grabs it and he pulls her up.

"Let's get you back."


	11. To Tell The Truth

Chapter 11 - To Tell the Truth

 _Hello everyone! It's been a bit! I haven't been able to flush minor details of this story out into a fic for a while but I think I'm on a roll again. I was thinking about how quickly Emma responded to Killian in my last chapter where they KISS but then I realized I've left Neil out of her past completely so her openness makes sense. I felt the need to defend that, even though nobody has questioned me about it. Thanks for being great, let me know what you're thinking :) xx_

He should dismiss himself from this case. He should get himself moved out of Boston. So many things are riding on his ability to become a police officer. Killian can't believe he's just put everything in jeopardy.

That night he dropped Emma off a block from the Boothe house.

"I don't want you going in there, Emma. He's dangerous. Marco is dangerous." 1He knows this isn't the truth because Emma herself seems to be the dangerous one. But he tests her, is driving himself crazy with longing for the truth of this damn shit show of a case.

She stares out the front window, her eyes sliding shut, her lips pressed together. She takes a deep breath, throws him a sideways glance, and opens the door. Killian rolls the window down as the car echoes with the sound of her putting a physical barrier between them once more. She bends over and looks back into the car.

"I'll be fine in there. I can take care of myself."

Killian is a little disappointed she doesn't just reveal the whole story to him right then in there. He settles for replying with, "Aye, that you can."

"Goodnight, Officer," she says. And he's surprised to see her smile at him before turning around with languid movements and walking back toward the house. He watches her parting figure in his rearview mirror, mesmerized by the wheaten hair that shines even in the dull light of a practically new moon.

He hates himself for this. He's jeopardized everything. He's jeopardizing everything and he still has no idea what he's dealing with.

That includes both the case _and_ Emma Swan.

Tonight was supposed to be about answers, he thinks, as he changes into sleeping shorts. Tonight was supposed to bridge a gap between what Emma says happens and what actually happened.

Instead he's left with _more_ questions that aren't exactly conducive to closing his case. He closes his eyes as soon as his head hits the pillow. His body is tired and he's mentally exhausted from everything, from his past, from his present, and from this damn future he keeps imagining, one that involves a blonde-haired girl and the open ocean, sea legs and salt hair, damp footprints and sun drunk smiles.

/~*~/

"David, I have to tell you something," Killian says as he hands his mentor a cup of coffee the following morning. David is standing at his desk, leaning over it to read the files spread across the surface. He runs one hand through his hair and grabs the coffee with the other one.

"What's up?" he replies, and Killian is grateful that he doesn't look up from the papers on his desk. Killian had barely been able to sleep even though his body was screaming for rest. He dragged himself out of bed this morning and knew that it would take more than a cup of crappy precinct coffee to clear his head, but unfortunately it was all he had. He was already on his third cup for the day.

"I don't think I can finish this case."

At this, David looks up. Killian takes a sip of his watered-down coffee and throws a wary glance in David's direction.

"What are you talking about?"

The confession is on the tip of his tongue. _I kissed her. I have feelings for her. I can't do this, it's gotten too personal._

Instead he says, "I'm not sure I know how we're supposed to get to the bottom of this case if we can't get the truth out of the family."

A voice hisses in his head. _Coward_.

David looks like he breathes a sigh of relief as he takes a more casual stance and leans his hip against his desk to face Killian head on.

"That's what the time you have shadowing me is for. I'll tell you for certain that it's quite often we really don't get answers from the families until we find the physical evidence. That's what we have to keep looking for, Jones. Cold, hard facts, tangible pieces of the case that we can lay out in front of them that will eventually lead to a truthful confession."

"But we've already searched the house and still have nothing."

David claps a strong hand on Killian's shoulder. "We'll just have to look elsewhere," he says with a smile.

"We don't have any leads!" Killian's voice raises a bit with his answer as he struggles to keep his composure. He's frustrated with the case and he's more frustrated with himself.

David's face turns serious as he says, "If you're getting this frustrated this easily, Jones, then maybe this isn't the path for you. Finish that," he gestures at the coffee cup that's started to shake in Killian's hand. "Finish that and then we'll make our way over to Marco's workshop." He walks away, heading toward Humbert's office to talk about who the hell knows what.

Let it be him. Let them make this easy for him, let them dismiss him from the case, from the division, from the precinct, from the career. His eyes shift from the now empty space in front of him to the desk he's been allowed to set up. It's sparse, but the two objects he has been allowed to "decorate" with knock him down a step from his pity party.

Nestled between the computer and the lamp are a picture frame and a boat in a bottle. The picture frame holds a photo of Killian and his brother, Liam. They're young and smiling, Liam holding a fish by the tail and Killian holding the fishing rod. Liam had caught the fish, but insisted Killian hold the rod, that way they'd "both have a prop," as he'd put it. The picture always brings a smile to Killian's face, but it also puts his heart into a convoluted series of flips and breaks. One second he's happy from the memory, the next he's in physical pain. He wants to remember Liam like this, he wants to love the time he had with his brother, he wants his memories to be pure, not full of violence and pain.

He's glad, after a minute, that he chose that moment to look at the picture. He's reminded himself why he's in law enforcement in the first place.

But damn it to hell when he imagines how Emma and Liam might have gotten along.

"Ready to go?" David asks, suddenly back at Killian's side.

"Aye," he says, crumbling the paper cup in his hand and tossing it into his waste basket. The two walk out of the precinct and into the squad car, filling the silence with an occasional sentence about the weather or what they had for dinner.

"How'd you get that black eye, by the way?" David finally asks. Killian had almost forgotten.

"I'm surprised it took you that long to ask."

"I was hoping you'd offer up an explanation and I wouldn't have to ask."

"To be fair, it's not the worst black eye I've ever gotten."

"To be fair," David mimics, "Officers in training shouldn't be participating in any kind of off the clock vigilante justice."

They both chuckle and Killian shrugs. "What can I say, I guess I'm more cut out for this than I think."

David throws him a sidelong glance and drops the joking tone of the conversation. "What happened?"

"You're gonna laugh at this one, mate."

"I'd better."

"I have a removable shower hose and it fell out of its holder and hit me in the eye last night." Killian had told himself this story so many times last night and during his commute this morning that he almost believed it himself.

David doesn't try to hid his surprise or his disbelief. "You're kidding me."

"Wish I was."

The car rolls to a stop in front of Marco's workshop. The storefront is nestled between a pizza chain and a general store. In fact, Marco's business looks to be the only family business on the block.

It stands out. While the other buildings have unsightly, commercialized awnings and promotional posters in their Windex-ed windows, Marco's remains the symbol of Bostonian tradition – aged brick, bay windows, and a dangling sign that reads the Boothe name in delicate script. It's quaint and inviting and completely unassuming.

In the squad car, David turns to fully assess Killian. Killian keeps the humor in his eyes, keeps his face in a loose half smile. He shrugs one shoulder and reaches for the door handle.

"Should we go inside?"

David is slow to answer. "Yes, but if you're lying –"

"Why would I lie?"

David shakes his head. "I don't know, but I like you, Jones. I want you on this team, in this division. But I can't protect you no matter how much I like you. My love for the job goes way beyond personal relationships, understand?"

"Yes."

"I don't care how much promise you've shown or what kind of bond we've made over this case in particular. I am the job, I've always been the job. I have a wife I adore and have to protect at all costs, I don't like dirty investigations no matter how much I might have grown to like a potential officer. Have I made myself clear."

"Yes, sir," Killian answers, his voice quiet and in awe of the passion his mentor had just exhibited. But it's also quiet from his shame.

David gives him a short nod and climbs out of the car. Killian gives him a second head start before climbing out behind him. The two walk up the curb and push the front door open, a tiny bell chiming to alert the employees that new customers have entered the shop. The workshop isn't empty. There's one elderly woman glancing at an immaculately crafted clock, her fingertips gently tracing the intricate rose details. The craftsmanship was magic, Killian would give the guy that much.

"Ma'am I'm sorry but we're going to have to close the shop for now," David says, charming her with that trademark smile. "You can come back later, I'll have the shop owner put that on reserve for you."

Killian ventures holding out an arm, makes light conversation with the elderly woman as he walks her out of the shop.

"Is Marco in trouble?" she asks him, her voice as shaky as her fingertips, the emotion in her eyes as transparent as her skin.

"He's – "

"Because he's a good man," she insists. "Don't punish him for the things his son does."

"Pardon?"

"That son of his," she waves a hand in the direction of the Boothe home for emphasis. "That boy and that no good girl they took in. Marco told me all the stories, all of them. That girl has been nothing but trouble, rubbing off on their poor son."

"Their poor son?"

"Would you walk me down the block, dear?" the woman asks in response. "My car is at the corner of the next street."

"Of course madame, but what is it you were saying about the Boothe boy? About August?"

She taps his arm once, twice, three times and laughs, a sound that comes from a place of genuine humor. "He's a good boy, always was. He was a Boy Scout growing up and used to offer to shovel stoops whenever it would snow."

"You live near them I gather?"

"Oh no, but this little neighborhood talks. Anyway," she sighs, "He grew up and became a brooding nightmare for Marco. The shop suffered, his work suffered. That rose clock in there that you rudely pulled me away from was the finest piece of work I'd seen from Marco in years!"

Killian covers the sound of his laughter by clearing his throat. By now they had reached the woman's car, but she was still clinging to his arm. He walks her around to the driver's side, but doesn't make any move to open the door. Not yet.

"When did he start acting out?" he probes. He can't help but feel like there may be some answers here, but he also knows this woman might not be his best source of intel.

"I don't really know."

"Can you think of any specific cases of rebellion?"

"Well, you know what, he did move out for a few months. Then Sarah had that heart attack and they took in that blonde girl and now the poor family is torn to pieces!"

Killian nods in response, making a mental note that this woman was verifying parts of their story.

"Other than that," she continues, "I just know Marco was upset. More often than not."

Killian nods again and this time opens the car door for her. "Thank you for your help, ma'am. We'll make sure Mr. Boothe puts that clock on hold for you."

At this point she has completely changed gears and thanks him, rambling on about the weather and the clock and closes the door with a parting remark about the plants she has to water when she gets home. Killian walks around the front of the car, mildly frustrated that she wasn't of more use.

"Oh, sonny!" she calls, leaning across the center console of the car to look at Killian out of the now rolled-down window. "One more thing about that family and their history of foster kids!"

He pauses on the sidewalk and turns to face the car, squinting as the sun reflects off the silver paint and into his eyes. "Pardon?"

"How many kids are on record?"

 _Where was this coming from_? "Two."

Her voice is suddenly filled with confidence and sturdiness. "You might want to investigate the third."

"The third?"

"His name was Neil. They had him for one day before he ran away."

"With all due respect, how do you know this, ma'am?"

"I told you this part of the neighborhood talks. If those two kids won't, you can ask more of the crazy elderly people who live around here. I can guarantee we've got a lot more information than you're getting!" She rolls the window up and cackles, a sound that echoes in Killian's ears and leaves him even more confused than he was this morning.

His walk back to the shop is swift and purposeful. With every step he does the best he can to dissect the information he was just fed. Is it credible? Probably not. Was he going to tell David? Absolutely.

As he reaches the shop, David is leaving it. He takes sunglasses out of his pocket and puts them on, nodding at Killian as he approaches.

"Anything?" Killian asks.

"Not really," David sighs. "A couple of clocks, some hand written receipts, and a whole lot of tools. We'd need a warrant to search further."

"I might have something," Killian offers as the two walk back to the squad car.

"What do you mean?"

"That old woman, she was mildly insane but she told me something I can't help but latch onto."

"And?"

"It seems as if there was some kind of off-the-record attempt at fostering a boy from the streets. Or at least that's what I gathered. She said his name was Neil."

David still hasn't started the car and he's turned his body to face Killian, rapt with attention. "Is that all she said? Do you remember her exact words?"

"Something along the lines of 'They didn't tell you about the third boy, did they?'"

David sighs and shakes his head, running a hand along the back of his neck. "I don't think any of that information would hold up, honestly. But we can try to see what we can find out about this boy. I doubt it would help anything at this point but it's worth a shot."

"Aye," Killian replies. "Nothing about this case is making sense."

David nods in agreement. "You'll find it happens more often than not. We just have to keep looking until the trail burns out or we make new paths. And I think you've helped start one. Relatively good work, Jones."

Killian doesn't respond. The two patrol the immediate are for a while, passing the Boothe house once, twice, three times, circling the block, parking a few houses down to watch for any signs of movement.

There aren't any, and Killian finds himself disappointed with the fact that he didn't get to see Emma, not that they didn't get anything new for the case.

He should dismiss himself from the case.

But as the door opens and it _is_ Emma – hair in a ponytail, earbuds in, running shoes on, nothing vulnerable about the way she holds herself or the energy she projects as she stretches – he knows he has to stay on.


	12. Run

Chapter 12 - Run

"I'm going to try to start running," Emma announces as she and August sit in his room, the only light coming from the glow of his computer screen as he writes something he'll probably delete in twenty minutes. Emma's legs are crossed on his bed and there's a plate of crackers sitting on her lap.

"I thought you were already a pro at that," he remarks.

"Very funny," she sneers, catapulting the last cracker she had in her hand in August's general direction. It lands gently and unobtrusively on his desk and he only chuckles before brushing it into his wastebasket. "I'm serious," she insists. "I think it's important for me, now more than ever."

"Emma." There's a stony undertone to his voice. He doesn't turn away from his computer to face her.

"August," she retorts.

He shakes his head and sighs. "This is getting ridiculous. You know that."

Emma feels herself bristle at his words. Her mind races for a minute. _What's getting ridiculous? What does he know?_ He hadn't mentioned anything about the bandages that covered the wound on her jaw or wrapped around her ankle. He didn't even know she wasn't home last night. _Or did he?_

August Boothe has been the only solid foster brother she's ever had. She recalls group homes she'd been in as a kid, remembers the harsh words of older, equally lonely girls and eager-to-prove-themselves boys who would steal from her and never expected her to fight back. She always would spew equally stony words or throw an equally forceful punch. But never with August.

She hadn't trusted him at first and honestly, he never really gave her a reason to. They fell into each other's patterns as naturally as any real brother-sister pair. Their relationship included petty fights and meaningful hugs.

Recently that mood has changed. Emma has no one to blame but herself.

All she found herself thinking about all day was the way Killian Jones had played knight in shining armor. She was angry, she was relieved, and quite honestly she was totally smitten.

Damn his accent, damn his timing, damn the way his five o'clock shadow had brushed against her check and the way his fingertips fluttered against her skin.

She settles for asking, "What are you talking about?"

He finally turns away from his computer. Their voices are hushed considering the time of night, but August has a now familiar edge to his words. "Every time that pair comes around my father loses another year off his life. I guarantee it. Every time they knock on this door or enter his shop, they have nothing to find! There's literally nothing there, no sign of domestic abuse no violence, _nothing_. He's a good man, Emma. I keep thinking about this plan and it's _stupid_."

Emma flinches away, but understands the feeling in her foster brother's voice. "August, I want to help you guys stay safe. I want to make sure that my time here is worth something before I have to leave."

"I keep thinking about this plan," he repeats. "We're jeopardizing my father's entire damn existence. Why did I ever agree to this? Why did I listen to you?"

Her cheeks are on fire and Emma finds herself clutching fistfuls of the sheets on August's bed to tame the pulsing in her palms. "You're being ungrateful," she hisses.

"You continue to be impulsive, so pardon my –"

" _I'm_ being impulsive? Your impulsivity got us in this mess in the first place!"

"I didn't have a choice. My mother was _dying_."

"You did have a choice and you chose –"

"Don't you act like you understand what it's like to see your mother in that condition, Emma. You have no idea."

She stares at him. Everything in the room is sharp angles and edges, the corner of his desk, the clench in his jaw, the rigidity of Emma's spine. She can feel impending tears as they swell up behind her eyes, never making way to the surface. She can feel this all to familiar feeling of being unwelcome in a home. She can feel the urge to run start to surface with more rapidity than the swelling of the sea during high tide.

They don't break their stand-off, this staring contest they've engaged in. Emma gives August a nod of finality. It screams _I'll leave, I understand._

And she does.

* * *

The door closes with a _click_ behind her as Emma steps out onto the stoop.

August had told his dad he was sleeping at a friend's last night. Emma had overheard the conversation from the room she was staying in. It was muffled through the walls but she could pick up on the hurried tones nonetheless.

 _I'm going to stay there tonight._

 _That's fine._

 _I'm sorry, Dad._

 _I don't understand, August. I don't think I ever will._

 _I'm going to fix it._

She stopped listening after that.

Now she stands with a bandaged ankle and an unwavering determination to run herself into exhaustion. Her earbuds are in and some random song comes up on an uninspiring playlist she chose while she mindlessly got herself ready.

She stretches, grabs her ankle to lengthen her quads, pushes her palms into the brick railing of the stoop to stretch out the back of her calves. Her ankle tugs in an uncomfortable way, but she disregards it. It'll be fine.

She trots down the steps with as much conviction as she can manage. The song in her ears doesn't reach her thoughts, it just distracts her from her surroundings. It's a rookie mistake but she makes it anyway. It's an intentional ploy at distracting herself from her actual stupidity.

It's so distracting that she doesn't notice the car following her. She doesn't hear her name as Killian yells out the window, and it's why her heart jumps out of her chest when she feels a hand come down on her shoulder.

With a shriek, she whips around with a clenched fist. Her punch is thwarted by his defenses. His forearm comes up to block her punch and it sends her staggering back a few steps. One hand flies to her heart and the other tugs her headphones out of her ears.

"What the hell?" she gasps.

He just stares at her.

"Can I help you?" she manages.

He inclines his head towards the cop car a block behind them. "David's trusting me to come out here and get who knows what kind of information out of you. I need to put on the show for him, but honestly I just wanted to see you."

Her heart is still racing beneath her palm and she's not sure it'll slow down in the presence of Killian Jones. "Let's put on a show, then." She takes a step backward in a display of mistrust. It's not hard for her to fake considering the fact that she hasn't actually trusted anybody in a long time.

Except for August, but that's damned to hell now anyway.

Killian looks visibly hurt by her distance, but she takes another step back.

"What do you want, anyway?" she asks. Her question is genuine. She's not sure what the hell is going on in her life anymore.

"I don't know," he admits.

Another step back. "I can't give you answers for this case, Killian. I don't have any answers myself."

He starts to advance towards her, hands out in surrender. "Listen, Emma. I want to help you, I genuinely do. I'm not sure where this stands, I'm not sure where we stand –"

"We don't stand anywhere." Her voice is so toneless even she can hear how empty the statement is. It seems to take him aback and something changes in his gaze. He shakes his head slightly and frowns. The displeasure reaches his crystal blue eyes and clouds them with an emotion she hasn't seen from him before. It almost looks like betrayal. He continues to advance toward her and she continues backing away.

"Is this the way you want to play this?" he seethes, genuine anger lacing his normally honeyed accent. "Do you want to play this game?"

"I'm tired of playing," she admits. The adrenaline that started to race through her veins at his initial contact has started to speed up into a sprint. She can feel her heart as it pounds in her chest and it's fueling her stupidity more than ever.

Sprained ankle aside, she decides to turn around and run.

She runs through the pain. Her ankle is screaming at her as she pounds against the pavement in sneakers that haven't been replaced for years, as her ponytail smacks against the exposed skin on her back, as the late August sun pounds against her skin and causes her external temperature to match her internal one.

Everything feels on fire. Her emotions, her thoughts, her shoulder where Killian had touched her.

All she can hear now is the blood as it rushes through her ears. It's like everything is building up inside her and she can't control it. Her lies are a skyline of a ruined cityscape. Everything is crumbling in the setting sun and there's no strong foundation beneath to hold up the scraps.

When Killian reaches her and tackles her to the ground it barely breaks her daze. She feels the concrete scrape against the exposed skin of the entire right side of her body. Her shoulder is first, her elbow, her hip where her shirt has ridden up, her thigh, her anklebone. He turns her onto her back and his knees are on either side of her hips. She doesn't meet his gaze and chooses to stare at the clouds above her instead. She feels the tears stream down her cheeks and a sob builds up in her chest. Killian's hands have wrapped themselves around her wrists and he holds her against the sidewalk. She tries to hold the sound in but it bubbles to her lips regardless.

"Swan, what the bloody hell is happening?"

She shakes her head, her gaze trained on the sky. The sirens get louder as David pulls the squad car up next to them.

Next thing she knows she's handcuffed and in the back of the car. David is driving and Killian is in the passenger seat. Her shoulder is bleeding and the metal of the handcuffs is cold against her skin. Her heart still races and her mind still spins. Emma can't make sense of up from down as a new plan forms in her head.

She feels Killian's gaze the most, though, as he throws daggers at her from the rearview mirror.

She won't look at him.


	13. One Way Ticket

Chapter 13 - One Way Ticket

Killian stares at Emma through the one way mirror of the interrogation room. David said he needed to go in there by himself and Killian didn't argue.

Emma is sitting in the chair facing him. Every now and again her gaze passes his as she looks away from the table in front of her. She knows he's standing there, he can tell from the way she slows the sweep of her eyes in an attempt to distract David.

Or herself. Killian isn't really sure.

She is pressing a gauze pad to her bleeding shoulder with handcuffed wrists as she remains sitting in stony silence. The wounds continue to pile on, raising that familiar protective impulse he had when he had first seen her.

"Tell me about your jaw," David asks. He paces the room with regal strides, his hands on his hips and his chin held high. "How'd that happen? It looks familiar to me, Emma. Do you know why?"

Emma doesn't respond. Her gaze flashes to Killian's again.

"Emma," David repeats. "Emma, I know people like you."

"You don't," she insists.

"I do. Do you think this is my first case? Do you think this is my first case working with an orphan from the foster system?"

Her jade eyes are narrowed and glassy as she stares at him and follows his pace around the interrogation room.

"I'm no stranger to this kind of case. I'm practically the king of cases like this. And quite frankly, I'm starting to see the cracks in your story. Jones." Killian starts at the sound of his name but walks to the door and enters the room nonetheless. "Jones, I want you in here for this. I want you to see what it takes to get the real criminal in the case to finally break her silence."

"I'm not the criminal," she insists.

Killian knows David's speech is an act. He was briefed on this kind of interrogation in school. It's reverse psychology, it's obvious, and Emma won't fall for it. But he leans back against the very mirror Emma keeps glancing at and watches David do his thing.

"Like I said, I know your type. Is it attention seeking? Do you just want validation? Do you want to fill that empty void that you have because you know your parents gave you up?"

The weather seems to be mirroring the tone in the interrogation room because a cloud moves across the sky to cover the sun that tends to stream in through the window. It's cloudy and grim and Emma's breathing has started to pick up. Killian spots the rapid rise and fall of Emma's chest as she deals with whatever emotions David is stirring up with his harsh interrogation.

It makes Killian uncomfortable.

"Emma," David repeats. This time, her gaze does flash to his. "Do I have to keep telling you my theories or will you finally let me in on whatever secret you're keeping?"

Silence.

"It's clear you're lying. You know that, right?"

She lets out a soundless chuckle, one that just sounds like a sharp outtake of breath as she shakes her head slightly. "Why's it obvious?"

"There's no evidence. Marco has a record of relatively harsh behavior, yes, but no domestic abuse. There's no record of his wife filing complaints against him, no ex wives, no punishable crimes. The only thing we were able to dig up were those noise complaints which seemed negative to me initially, when I was on your side, but now I'm starting to think he's innocent, Emma. I'm really starting to think you're the criminal. There's more negativity in your past than his. All you do is run. Are you running from crimes you've committed? Are you running from guilt?"

"You know me so well, Detective, why don't you tell me?"

"I want to hear your side of the story before I tell you what I think. Let's go back to my original question, though. Do you know why the slash on your jaw looks familiar to me?"

"Why's that?" There's a mocking tone to her voice and Killian knows it's going to get her into trouble. He wants to scream at her.

"It looks exactly like August's did when we first got to your house that night in June. He had an injury exactly like yours. And that's really gotten me thinking, Emma. That's really gotten me thinking about who's the criminal and who's the victim."

"You can't possibly think I'm the criminal."

"Why's that? You ran away from Officer Jones today, so that's pretty damn incriminating if I do say so myself."

Her gaze flashes to his and she's so incredibly angry he can feel it radiate off her skin. "He caught me off guard."

"Right, and the person who gave you that injury? Did they catch you off guard as well?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want, Detective."

"Swan." Killian hears his voice before he can stop himself. David glances back at him and he expects to see anger, but instead he looks encouraging. So Killian presses on. "We told you from the very beginning we wanted to help you. You're sitting in a very tangled web of lies right now. It's a one way ticket to prison, honestly."

"What do you know," she seethes.

"I know I've been in your place before, I know I've tried to protect someone with all my might and had it backfire. It's not very enjoyable. Let us help you."

"You can't help me," she insists.

David leans forward on the table, palms flat, fingers spread, an intimidating angle. "Dammit, Emma let us try!"

"There's no point!" Her voice has risen, too. She pushes her chair back with force, stands up to her full height and lifts her chin to keep eye contact with David who mimics her stance. "I'm trying to keep everyone safe." Her voice has taken on a shrill note and it's almost like she's close to breaking.

Again, Killian notices his discomfort. He doesn't like seeing her like this.

"You keep telling yourself that, but look where it's gotten you. At this point you're withholding evidence, Emma. That _is_ punishable. It _can_ get you jail time."

"So throw me in jail. See if I care."

"I have a feeling you would."

"I'll say it again, Detective. You don't know me."

"Swan," Killian hisses. She doesn't look at him and it makes his hands clench at his sides.

David sighs and looks back at Killian. "All right, Jones. I'd say we've tried enough for today. Book her for the night."

Killian is taken aback. "Pardon?"

"Book her. We'll keep her here overnight. We'll call the Boothes to tell them, but I doubt they'll come get her based on what she's telling us. Or isn't telling us." With a dismissive wave of his hand, David ventures out of the interrogation room.

Emma and Killian are both standing still. Emma remains at her place by the table, standing with her hands hanging in front of her, the wound on her shoulder long forgotten as the gauze hangs in her grip. The bleeding has stopped and Killian finds himself repeating the same thing he did the other night.

"You need to get that wound cleaned, Swan, or it'll cause an infection."

She doesn't move or acknowledge what he's said. Her gaze is relatively blank as she stares at the door David just left through. Her breathing looks like it's returned to normal, if not a bit too shallow. Killian notices for the first time that she doesn't have her glasses.

"Do you need your glasses, Swan?"

Again, she ignores him. He hears David knock on the one way mirror, an indication Killian's supposed to take Emma to the holding cell in their precinct.

He walks toward her with relatively slow strides and hesitates before reaching out to guide her forward. His hand lands on her elbow and he moves her away from the table toward the door, down the halls past curious eyes, past people cleaning up their desks for the day.

The cell creaks as he opens it. It's the only noise that's been exchanged between the two of them since David's interrogation. Emma walks in and sits on the bench. Her gaze is still relatively vacant.

Killian leans forward against the bars, resting his forehead against their cool metal. "David didn't mean half of what he said you know."

"Forget it," she whispers.

"Emma."

"I said forget it."

"Jones." Killian stands at rapt attention at the sound of his name. It's Humbert, not David, who beckons him to his office. He glances back at Emma one last time before reluctantly making his way over to his commanding officer's door. He closes it behind him and waits for further instruction.

"Here's what's going to happen," he says, not bothering with formalities. "I'm going to go home for the night, David's going to go home for the night, and you're going to stay here."

"Pardon?" he repeats his statement from earlier. "Sir, with all due respect –"

"We think it'll be good for you, Jones," David cuts in, a beaming smile on his face. He's returned to his normal charming self and Killian finds himself grimacing at his mentor.

"Can I get some direction?"

"See what information you can get out of Miss Swan. I know she's not guilty, but at this point I'm getting frustrated. She's going to stay here, Marco's been contacted and he said he's not going to come get her. He said he wants her to learn a lesson." David chuckles before continuing. "I need to know what I'm investigating. Consider this one of your final tests."

"We're counting on you, Jones," Humbert says. "What do you say?"

"Aye," he responds. His stomach churns with more than one emotion. He's definitely nervous, but there's something else he can't place.

Time flies by for the rest of the evening until Killian watches David and Graham's retreating figures out of the precinct. Killian leans against the short edge of his desk, arms crossed, gaze directly focused on Emma in the damn holding cell.

She hasn't said a word in three hours.

He makes his way over to the bars and assumes a lazy side lean against the bars.

"Are you ready to get that wound cleaned up, Swan?"

"Leave me alone." Her voice is quiet. Her back is to him and her entire right side is visible, every concrete scratch and wound all the way down to the ace bandage on her ankle.

"Emma, please let me help you." His voice has dropped to a whisper. He feels a desperate clenching in his chest. She doesn't seem like herself and Killian knows he's partly to blame. She lifts herself off her side after a minute of silence and turns to face him, but remains sitting on the bench that suddenly seems too far away from him.

"Killian, I can't." She's whispering back.

"Why not?"

"I just can't!"

"Bloody hell, Swan. At least let me help you get cleaned up." He smirks, "Again."

Despite herself she smirks back at him. Her eyes slip closed and she shakes her head slightly from side to side. The handcuffs are still on her wrists and it sends a new wave of fury through Killian's bloodstream. Suddenly he's struck with an idea that he knows would get him fired if he were caught.

Lucky for him everyone else went home for the night. He walks away from Emma for a moment and grabs the keys to the holding cell.

He doesn't even hesitate as he inserts it into the lock and unlatches the door.


End file.
